


Qun means Choice

by brodylover



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abuse, Accidental Relationship, Alcohol, Animal Death, Assassination Attempt(s), Badly Translated Latin, Bas-Saarebas, Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Painful Sex, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Saarebas Dorian, Seheron, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, Torture, making shit up on the fly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:30:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 25,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6235084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brodylover/pseuds/brodylover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a job for the Qun, Bull has no choice but to lead his Chargers through Par Vollen. Regardless of his intentions, they learn what happens to mages under the Qun. Bull may still be Qunari, but there are many reasons he wouldnt want to have a Bas Saarebas under his command, even if for only one job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Breaking

Bull hadnt wanted to bring them into Par Vollen at all, but the job had brought them there and the money would be good. He had to take Dalish’s bow away from her, strap it to his own back, and he had to remind them all to keep their eyes down and mouths shut. They didn’t understand the Qun, they didn’t know how much the structure helped, and they would never turn viddathari and he didn’t want to force them to.

  
The city was a noisy, tamassarans trying to keep the younger qunari in line, the soldiers practicing, and the blacksmiths pounding on their metals. The job was done, for the most part, but he had a feeling there would be more to it. They wouldn’t want him to come back, especially not with the Chargers, just to pay him. They would send someone out for that.

  
Skinner’s hand went for Dalish’s but a glare from Bull made her stop. Love wasn’t a thing in the Qun. They didn’t want to draw more attention than they already were. People would ask questions and questions would turn to interrogations and interrogations could lead into conversion. He didn’t want to lose any of his boys to fall for that.

  
They were to meet with Arterad, to get paid, to turn in the loot, to get the next part of their job. Bull kept reminding himself of that, kept planning on it, didn’t let his mind wander to other places. This was Par Vollen, this was home. This was as things were supposed to be, but the people here felt wrong, felt bad, and he couldn’t shake that. This was all he had known for so long but now, now he thought that there was maybe more that they could strive for.

  
The screaming wasn’t so far off not to alert him and then he was thinking too much, not keeping himself on track. He moved before any of the others heard it, Krem calling out after him, but it didn’t matter. Someone was hurting.

  
The screaming grew louder as he charged towards it, sobs and agony cracking the voice that the sound came from. A prisoner of war perhaps, being tortured for information, or a criminal, being forced to repent. But there was a desperation, a plea for help, that he couldn’t ignore.

  
The tent was guarded, but loosely, and the large men surrounding it only nodded to Bull before he ducked inside. They all had their arms crossed. They were there to stop whoever was inside from escaping, not to prevent interlopers.

  
The screams were cut off short by the arvaarad, larger even then the Bull himself. His horns were long and they curved back around his white hair. His hands were so big that he could hardly fit one around the human’s neck, which he squeezed to cut off air supply. The human was broken, his back a mass of bloody wounds, his face broken and beaten in. For the moment though, he was quiet, the only sound coming from him a wet gurgling.

  
“What’s all this then?” Bull tried to keep his voice calm but every nerve was telling him to rush forward, to pull the human out of the arvaarad’s grip.

  
“Got ourselves a new bas saarebas.” The arvaarad explained, “Having a hard time breaking it though. Doesn’t like following orders.”

  
“Maybe your orders are too hard.” Bull knelt down in front of the mage. There was no fight left in him, no will to cast a spell against his torturer. There were no holes in his lips though, he hadn’t been bas saarebas for long. “Is he viddathari?”

  
The arvaarad released the mage’s throat, shifting his grip to his thick black hair. The mages sputtering and wheezed, swallowing down air as best he could through such a damaged face. “A mage? Viddathari? You’re joking, right?”

  
This was wrong. They couldn’t make bas saarebas out of those who weren’t part of the Qun. Bull kept his mouth shut though. Looked over the mage. He was thick, muscular, and the darkness of his skin showed him as being from Tevinter. A prisoner of war then, forced to join the Qun. Not unheard of.

  
“You hurt him too much, he could explode on you.” Bull reminded and the mage shook, tears cleaning away blood from his cheeks. He could hear voices behind him now, The Chargers, but none of his boys were coming in. He didn’t want them to see this. He couldn’t stop it.

  
The arvaarad gestured at the leather of the tent. They were tattooed with dark lines, sigils and wards to block the fade from entering. The mage couldn’t even cast a healing spell if he so much wanted to.

  
“Hissarad.” The arvaarad cocked his head. He knew him then. Bull hadn’t even spent enough focus on the torturer to recognize him. Seheron though, of course Seheron. Caasitan had been the arvaarad in another squad, but a squad that his traveled next to. “You’re little friends are waiting, you’re employer is waiting too. No need to watch what happens here.”

  
“Right.” Bull’s mouth was a tight line, his eyesight blurry. He remembered Caasitan, remembered how he’d treated his saarebas, how he’d made all those near him bend to his orders. He didn’t want to be there for this. “Nice catching up with you.”

  
He knew that he was shaking when he left the tent, made it back to The Chargers once more, in a way that he couldn’t hide. The screams picked up once more and his shaking hands turned into shaking fists. They were all looking up at him, waiting for his word, for an excuse to go in there and tear things up. All but Grimm, who’s eyes were locked on the tent’s opening, seeing the brutality inside.

  
He shook his head and marched away from the tent. They wouldn’t all be killed for the fate of one saarebas.


	2. The Hurting

They turned in the head of Anassas and Arterad was pleased, more so than most would at the sight of their brethrens dead face. They had grown up together with the same tamassaran, but Anassas had decided to start his own rebel clan and had become tal vashoth. Arterad had wanted him gone from his land and The Chargers had taken care of it. Now they were richer but had the next task.

 

Anassas had friends, it seemed, and Arterad wanted them all gone. The next was Erilaas, who Bull had only heard rumors about. Shaky, unhappy, and wanting to get as far away from Par Vollen as he could, Bull lead his people back through the city, taking the long way around that bloody tent.

 

That route took them past the Saarebas quarters though, and Bull didn’t want to explain to Dalish exactly what was going on there.

 

The saarebas that hadn’t been put to rest were heading there, kneeling comfortably on their cots while their own avaarads locked them in place. They slept in most of their armor, only the basics removed, the masks set aside. Dalish and Stitches both gasped as they saw how the saarebas’ lips had been sewn shut and Skinner pulled Dalish tightly beside her, ignoring how she wasn’t supposed to. Rocky took a step closer to Bull as well.

 

And there was the mage. He was unconscious, or close enough to that he couldn’t even move, and Caasitan carried him over his shoulder as if he weighed nothing. He dumped him onto a bare cot, not caring if he hurt him further and the mage just gasped at the pain of it. He wasn’t nude now, wearing a collar and manacles, suppressing his magic further. He was locked in place, like the others, albeit against his will. Bull swallowed kept his eyes down, and kept going.

 

He normally had good instincts, but he hadn’t noticed that The Chargers weren’t following him until he was no longer within sight of the saarebas. There were no sounds of struggle though, no fighting, so they weren’t getting themselves in danger. They were just waiting around somewhere.

 

Bull didn’t dare to turn back though, not until he was certain that Caasitan was gone from there. He watched from the shadows, smaller than he normally was, certain that no one would see him. Eventually, Caasitan left the quarters, wiping his hands free of blood on his already stained trousers.

 

He sighed, shook his head, and headed back to where he was sure The Chargers were.

 

Krem, Grimm, and Rocky were all standing guard, eyes shifting from shadow to shadow. Stitches was on his knees, wiping blood away from the whimpering man’s face and chest with a rag he’d soaked with elfroot and water from his canteen. Dalish was beside him, clutching his mangled hands in her own, whispering some Elven prayer. Skinner was busy at the locks, as little as she could do with them.

 

“You’re not going to get them off.” Bull rumbled, towering over Skinner. She glared at him, an anger that wasn’t normally there.

 

Dalish hesitated but kept praying. Stitches moved down to the man’s back. He whimpered shrilly and curled in on himself, pulling away from the touch as much as he could in his weakened state.

 

Stitches ran his hand through the man’s hair, whispering. That hair would be gone, soon enough, shaved away before the helmet came down, his face sealed away as well as his independence. The mage relaxed at the touch and the kind words, but stiffened with each touch of the damp rag at his back.

 

“You’re not helping matters, you know.” Bull looked at them all, heart tightening as they did their best. “He is a saarebas now, a tool of the Qun.”

 

“You always make the Qun sound like a good choice.” Krem grumbled, not turning from his post, “But it isn’t. How can it be when they turn people into things? Here I thought Tevinter was bad, but you lot, you pretend you’re doing the right thing.”

 

“It’s all they -we- know.” Bull shook his head. “This man is lost. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

 

Stitches kept going though, kept cleaning and shushing the man as he went lower on his back, seeing the mage start to panic. Dalish ignored him, her eyes on the moon as pale as her skin, and prayed. They were all going to be caught and to be caught praying to a different god? Bull didn’t even knew what the sentence was for that. Reeducation would just be the start.

 

Stitches reached the area that the mage was so concerned about and he yelped and pulled away, stronger than he had been before. Stitches had run out of back and now the man was as far away as he could get, bound as he was to his cot. There was blood down his thighs; and semen.

 

Bull needed to hit something. Or get hit by something. He grabbed Stitches, pulled him to his feet, away from the squirming mage. “Get out of here.” He growled, voice low, “Just outside of town. We need to get on the job.”

 

Stitches was pale, looked like he was about to argue, but he was smart and knew when to keep his mouth shut. He nodded, wouldn’t look Bull in the eye, and lightly tugged on Dalish’s arm. She came up like a doll, not all there. Skinner went to her side, supported her, and The Chargers followed instructions.

 

The saarebas was closed off, staring at Bull like he was Caasitan. To him, all Qunari may have been. He wrapped his arms around his thick legs, pulled them against himself, and shivered, trying to keep his crying silent. Bull felt cold and he never felt cold. His hands felt numb and his throat felt dry and he didn’t know where to look. He primarily didn’t want to look between the saarebas’ legs.

 

He sat on the end of the cot and it dipped beneath his weight. He didn’t look at the saarebas.

 

“You should give in.” he said. All of the anger that had been there bled out of him and his voice was calm, soft. The saarebas stared at him. “It will be easier if you do. You’re not going to get out of this, there is no rescue. The sooner you give in, the sooner it will stop hurting.”


	3. The Remembering

Seheron was hot, hotter than anywhere in Par Vollen. The Antaam were strong though, the men would not falter, and they went further into the forest. Hissrad led a small platoon of soldiers, hitting strong, devastating as much as they could in as little time as possible, causing chaos everywhere else. But they were no match for the saarebas from the platoon next to theirs. 

While that one was only of five, Caasitan and his charges, they were like black powder. He would take off a saarebas’ manacles and throw them at the enemy, watch them explode in a mass of power. The devastation wasn’t just to the enemy, but to the forest itself, fires spreading and consuming, lightning bursting whatever life into pieces, ice freezing in permanent sculptures. 

There was no way Hissrad would get on Cassitan’s bad side.

At first his platoon kept its distance from Cassitan’s but eventually, too many wounded and needy of a saarebas’ healing touch, they came together. Hissrad didn’t say much, just kept an eye on all that contained magic, unsure of how safe it really was, even when it was bound so tightly. 

Blisteringly hot days faded into muggy nights, insects taking what blood battle hadn’t. It was hard to sleep, even without the saarebas so close and Hissrad found himself taking more watches than anyone else. He could at least swap the mosquitoes away when he was awake. And he could see what the saarebas were up to. 

The saarebas. He’d never seen them like this, in the distance just slightly down the path. They had no fire going, only the moons gave light to the mages, and Caassitan was removing their masks. They hadn’t eaten during the days and Hissrad watched with interest as Caassitan took out a small knife and cut through the stitches on the first saarebas’ lips, freeing them. 

No words of thanks came from the saarebas but no food was procured either. Instead, the saarebas fell to its knees before its arvaarad. It undid Caassitan’s trousers with knowing hands, practiced fingers, while he cut the stitches away from the next of them. 

Each one fell to its knees before him and the first worked his cock to hardness before taking it deep into its throat. They all fought for it, mildly, passively, but they each suckled on the massive cock of their arvaarad while he laughed at their attempts. 

Hissrad stared, knew that he shouldn’t. It wasn’t his business. Sex wasn’t supposed to be for pleasure, neither was pain, but Caassitan seemed to revel in both, when they came from his saarebas. When he was done with their mouths, he shoved them away and they all whimpered but obeyed, crawling into a line, pulling down their own trousers to expose themselves. 

Some were male, others female, but he didn’t care to stretch any of them out, to use the oils needed to make this kind of thing pleasant. He went from one to the next, pumping into them and ignoring how the clawed at the earth, trying not to cry out. 

“Want to join me?” Caasitan snarled, bucking his hips ruthlessly into the smallest of the males, who couldn’t stop itself from crying. “Plenty to go around.”

Hissrad licked his lips and pulled his eyes away. Caught watching. He was good at watching. He didn’t want to answer, he didn’t want to know what Caassitan did with his saarebas. He did things that weren’t necessary, didn’t help the whole, things that only aided himself.   
“I can lend you one, if you want.” Caassitan’s voice was getting rough, as were his ministrations. He was close. “You can have your own saarebas slut for the rest of our companionship. “ The saarebas sobbed as Caassitan came into him, hips stuttering.   
“No thanks.” Hissrad growled between his teeth. He could taste blood.  
Caassitan pulled himself out and tucked himself away. Only once he was ready did he move for the saarebas’ rations, and it was the small male that got the first bite. “I’ll admit, none of their holes are very tight anymore. The offer stands though.”  
Hissrad didn’t bother to answer. His hands were in fists, his nails drawing blood in his palms. No, he would never get on Caassitan’s bad side.


	4. The Sentencing

It was the silence that woke Bull up. He never slept all that soundly, but when his boys weren’t breathing, he was up in a second. He was out of his tent, eye wide and searching, pushing the flaps open to their tents. They were all empty. 

He growled. What an idiot, of course they’d gone back, of course they were causing trouble. They were going to try to save that poor saarebas, and if they hadn’t been anywhere else, he would be right there with them. But he couldn’t and they were surrounded by Qunari and they were going to get themselves killed. 

He didn’t bother to grab his axe or his brace, he was just running. The sun was just starting to rise and one of the moons was just a pale ghost in the sky. Most of them would still be asleep, maybe he could get to The Chargers before it was too late. 

The ground was just dirt, packed down by hundreds of feet over time. It was easy to run across. Bull kept his head down, his eye trained, his feet steady. He couldn’t have a slip now, Stitches would never let him hear the end of it. He’d been the one to fix his knee, as best as it could be, in the first place. He couldn’t help any of them if there was another break. 

There was too much movement, too many people. They shouldn’t have been milling about yet. They were though, all heading towards the saarebas quarters. That wasn’t good. 

He rushed past them. They were just onlookers. He could hear him now, Caasitan and Arterad both, talking angrily. He didn’t hear any of The Chargers. 

He picked up the pace. He had to get there. They could all be killed for this. They were his boys. His heart was thundering in his chest. How his tama would have been displeased. She’d always said he was too soft, too caring. He wasn’t supposed to feel so much. He couldn’t lose his boys. 

They were all on the ground, as if they were bowing to Arterad, but there was a Qunari standing above each of them, their spears pointed at necks, ready to pierce. Bull slid to a stop, swallowing, trying to slow his heart. Caasitan wanted them dead, was arguing for it. Arterad had his arms crossed though, was looking down his slender nose at The Chargers, wasn’t so sure. 

The saarebas was in the same condition as before, still locked up, still bloody, but Stitches had taken care of the worst of it. He looked healthier, but just as scared. He was staring at The Chargers, looked like he was ready to defend them, if only he could.

“Hissrad.” Arterad looked at him, ignoring what Caasitan was saying. “What can you say for your men?”

Krem looked at him with murder in his eyes. Dalish was sobbing into the ground, openly. He walked past them, through the center of The Chargers, towards Arterad. He tried to keep his head up, show some semblance of pride. He couldn’t show any weakness. 

“They’re not of the Qun.” The steadiness of his voice surprised him. “They do not know our ways. They’re y boys, I’ll take whatever punishment you deem fit for them. I should have informed them.”

He knelt down before Arterad, lowering his head, opening himself for a blow that he knew would never come. Arterad needed him to kill his opponents, to remove any gangs of rebellion from his lands. Nothing Caasitan could do would change that.   
“I see.” 

“Well, I don’t!” Caasitan snarled, reaching for his weapon. “That’s my property that were trying to steal! They all need to be punished.”

“Your property?” Arterad spun on Caasitan, his voice a deep rumble. Caasitan stood a head taller than Arterad but he cowered all the same. “This is the Qun! There is no ‘mine’! There is no property! Everything you do is for the best of all, or have you forgotten that? Now, I don’t approve of how you’ve been treating the saarebas, you’ve made it harder to work with other Qunari! You’ve broken too many in the past, broken them to the point they were of no use, so maybe it’s you who should be punished!”

Caasitan actually looked small as he cowered under their commander. Arterad turned back to Bull and the others. “The Chargers are hereby banished from Par Vollen except with explicit invitation and only Hissrad is allowed into the great cities until further notice.”

The audience sighed and backed away, having wanted to see blood. The guards released The Chargers and they rose to their feet, rubbing away their aches. Stitches and Dalish were looking at the saarebas but the clearing of Bull’s throat snapped them back to attention. Skinner looked like she was ready to tear Arterad apart. 

“Thank you.” Bull nodded his head and pulled himself to his feet.

“I’ve known you a long time, Hissrad.” Arterad reminded him, “I trust you to keep a better eye on your men.”

“Only have the one sir.” Bull jested. Arterad did not share in his sense of humor.


	5. The Fight

There was something magical about watching elves attack at night, their eyes glowing the color of the moon, the stars reflecting off daggers and crystal. Bull didn’t like the magic coming off of Dalish’s bow, but it was useful, and it cut down the Tal Vishoth scouts before they could alert their clansmen. 

Whatever Tal Vashoth caught on to the attack were distracted, as a massive explosion took out the caves on the other side of the encampment. Rocky was getting better, but it was still a long way from black powder. There were screams as the former Qunari woke, as they grabbed weapons and armor, and rushed in the directions of so much noise. 

Then it was time for the rest of them, Grimm and Krem running down the hill into the valley, Bull roaring behind them, Stitches taking up the rear. They were vastly outmatched, but the Tal Vashoth were unorganized, surprised, and out of form. They didn’t know what direction The Chargers were coming from as they left their marks and moved inwards, how many of them there were. 

Bull sounded his horn and the valley seemed to shake with the force of it, the Tal Vashoth pausing in their tracks, sure an army was going to come over the hill. Confusion moved to chaos and Bull swung, his axe going through one and then two of the rebels. He could hear Krem hollering, his hammer crashing through horns and shoulders and skulls. A flash of electricity and Dalish leapt over them all, graceful as anything, thrown by Skinner. The rogue was slicing her way after Dalish, eyes as bright as a tiger’s in the night. This was a battle to remember, a battle to celebrate. 

And then the Tal Vashoth were screaming in response, were calling out orders and starting to fight back. Even better. It wasn’t enough of a fight when it was all one-sided. 

Grimm thrust his sword into one of their chests, just under the ribs, then pushed up to crack through the bones. Another explosion, closer, spread out a platoon that was just coming together, Rocky heading towards the main party. Stitches threw his grenades, potions gone wrong or made into terrible poisons, all spreading out to do as much damage to the masses. 

Bull raised his axe, brought it down through one and then spun it to get another that was trying to sneak up on them. It was night, the confusion was lasting longer than usual, but soon they would all realize that there was no backup coming. He grit his teeth, went harder, faster, felt his muscles argue against the force of his attacks. These were former Qunari though, they took more to be cut down than humans or elves. 

He cut and sliced, and then, his face dripping blood and his hands numb around the axe’s pommel, he stopped. In front of him was a human, a Tal Vashoth, undoubtedly, but a human one at that. He could tell that he was human, even under the mask that hid his face and the collar that bent his posture down. 

Saarebas. 

But strong in arms, in chest, fighting. The man’s silver eyes had begged him, even when there was blood coating his back. There was so much fear in him, even though he had the body of a warrior, hiding away and trying to protect his vulnerabilities, even though he’d been caught and tied to his own back. His skin had been dark, dark from time in the sun, from pleasure or hard work, or the climate Bull didn’t know. His face had been beaten in, his body violated and bruised, but still, he’d had fight in him and a strange kind of beauty. 

He should have done something, he should have saved him. He should have killed him, really. There was no saving that man from his fate. A swift death was the closest he could do. 

Flames crept up the saarebas’ arms, growing hot and red. Bull’s thoughts shot back to the present. This was not that saarebas. That saarebas would never be Tal Vashoth. It would die under its Avaarad’s commands. This one he could deal with. 

He cut off its head before it could release its spell and the mask clacked as it hit the ground. They had released their saarebas, had taken off their manacles. This fight had just gotten interested. 

Bull smiled and returned to the fray.


	6. The Celebrating

Eseraad’s head was good, Arterad was pleased with the quickness that The Chargers had retrieved it. Then there was Hartaard, Ment, Anisaari, and Klept. The Chargers took them all, changing tactics, always attacking at night, when most of the Tal Vishoth were asleep. Explosions and magic and confusion were their elements and they used them without hesitation, dispersing and cutting down as many Tal Vashoth as they could. 

Bull tried not to, but whenever he was in the city he couldn’t help but look for that fighting saarebas. He didn’t know what he would do if he saw him, but he hoped he’d be strong enough to kill him. It was too much, the life that was shoved onto him, Bull knew that the rest of the saarebas’ life would be nothing but pain. Caasitan didn’t like fighters. 

He never saw him though and he was always escorted away from the saarebas quarters. 

Time passed and the job finally ended. It had been almost a year since they’d first come to Par Vollen on Arterad’s request and it was good to leave. Dalish was skittish in Par Vollen, a mage who claimed that she wasn’t in a country that stopped mages from being people. She shrunk and looked so nauseated any time they had come across a saarebas on the road. 

They had more money than they’d had in ages and Bull demanded that a large chunk of it went to the first tavern they came across outside of Qunari territory. That gave his boys high spirits and they hooped and hollered their proclamations of love for their chief. He was pretty sure that their horses all started moving faster at that as well. 

Drinks were good, even with Bull’s high tolerance. He wanted to celebrate the end of a lengthy and multi leveled job, one that they weren’t sure would ever end. More than that though, he wanted a distraction. 

Whenever he saw a man whose skin was just the right shade of brown, someone’s eyes with just the right kind of fear, his thoughts went back to that saarebas. He had killed many saarebas in the Tal Vashoth’s companies, did it as quickly as he could to deny them their magic, but every time he felt a strange pang in his heart. He knew that they hadn’t chosen this, that they would probably not fight him if given a choice, but that was wrong. He was supposed to think that saarebas weren’t people. After seeing how that mage fought though, it was hard to believe that. 

He drank with his men. He drank until the tavern was dry and they were kicked out for their rowdiness. So they moved on to the next tavern, Krem bouncing on his side, shoulder crashing into his gut as he swayed through his walking. 

Bull wasn’t drunk yet, but more than half The Chargers had already had too much and were planning for more. He wondered what he would do, if the Qun were to take any of them; if they were subjugated to what that saarebas was. He knew he would kill anyone who had hurt them, anyone who stood in his way to get to them. He couldn’t do that for that young mage though. He didn’t know why he couldn’t, why it mattered so much. He just couldn’t shake it.   
“Hey Chief.” Krem slurred into his armpit. He looked down at his lieutenant, who was halfway through stripping off his armor while they walked, a bright red flush in his cheeks and ears. “You’re good, you know? Not one of them bastards. A good man.”

Bull smiled down at him. Krem was wrong, terribly so, and Bull grabbed his armor and pulled it back in place so Krem wouldn’t continue until he was nude in the middle of the town square. But he could be good. He had the potential. He held onto that and he knew, next time he saw that saarebas, he would do the right thing.


	7. The Job

A month off and then a letter and they were all going to Tevinter for another job. Krem wasn’t happy about it but it was Tevinter so there was no blaming him. Still, when they arrived at the Estate Bull was sure to take Krem along, more so than the others. Krem was the only one out of them who was fluent in Tevene to his knowledge, and he would be needed to listen in on the slaves conversations, to get more information than their employer may have been willing to give. 

Krem left his hammer with the rest of The Chargers, but he still looked like he was about to bash in some heads as he walked into the courtyard, anger flashing stronger in his eyes at every slave they saw. 

Halward had a calm expression that didn’t match the urgency in his letter. When they joined him, sitting in his garden, he offered them wine and bread, which Krem refused but Bull delighted in. He was dressed well and spoke quietly, collectively, practiced. There was a lot he wasn’t showing in his words. 

“You know, we’re more the bloodthirsty killer type of mercenaries, not the detective type.” Bull reminded him once he was done explaining the situation. 

“I know your reputation, The Iron Bull, you can find out things that some spies cannot.” Halward sipped his wine. “You’re good at your job. My son is missing, has been for the last year. If anyone can find him, it’s you.”

“A year?” Bull scoffed, “He could be anywhere -he could be dead- in a year. If you’re so worried why didn’t you set out to find him sooner?”

Halward sighed, deflated, in his elegant lounge chair. “Trust me, I’ve had people looking this whole time. Dorian and I had just had a… a familial conflict. I thought perhaps he’d run away and, once his anger had subsided, he’d come home and we could patch things up between us. That hasn’t been the case. I fear something may have happened.”

Bull leaned back and his own chair creaked. He had to be careful or he’d break it. “What kind of conflict?”

“A private one.” Halward’s eyes were dark. He wasn’t over it either. Bringing Dorian back could be dangerous. 

“You’re going to have to be open with me here, boss. I can’t do the job if I don’t know the details of it.”

Halward sighed again and downed his glass of wine before pouring himself another. “He’s 26, was 25 when he went missing. He’s betrothed to this young lady of another family, has been for ages, but he will not marry. He argues it on every turn.”

“Wonder why that is?” Krem had his eyes on a pair of elves conversing in the corner of the garden.

“I didn’t want it to get out.” Halward was quiet now, leaning forward, as if the slaves would snitch on him. “Dorian had been… seeing someone. Multiple someones. My wife and I, we thought it was just a phase, but he’d been sleeping with… men… for years now. Says he could never be with a woman, won’t even try. It’s a scandal, no one can know that our son is…”

“Not into ladies?” Bull crossed his arms. He’d never understand these ‘Vints. 

“Yes.” 

Halward squirmed in his seat at the glare he got from Krem. There was nothing this man could do to get the man on his side now. 

“We can find your son.” Bull butted in, interrupting the way Krem wasn’t blinking. “But we have to know, for certain, that if he was just a runaway, living in sin this whole time, he’s not going to be reprimanded for it. I don’t want to hear about him running away again because of another argument.”

“I swear.” Halward nodded, gulping. “He’ll never get out like this again.”

Bull didn’t know if he should take that line literally or not. He’d have to take it though. 

Halward slipped over a small portrait. The boy in the photo was younger than 25, but not by much. He had dark hair and bronze skin, silver eyes that were lined with kohl. 

Bull stilled, not taking the portrait, but thickness leaping into his throat at the sight. He knew that face. Sure it had been beaten in when he last saw it, and there was no kohl, but that look in his eyes. That was the saarebas. 

He looked at Halward, then at Krem. There was no way that he could tell their new employer what had happened to his son. He didn’t even know if it was possible to get him back. Regardless, that saarebas would never be the Dorian Pavus that had once been.


	8. The Battle

Another letter and a response and The Chargers were explicitly invited back to Par Vollen. Bull had explained the situation, excluding the facts that he knew exactly where and who Dorian Pavus was, and Arterad was not the kind of man who would deny someone his work. So they took a ship back to Par Vollen and horses the rest of the way to the city. 

  
They hadn’t been rushing, even with Dalish’s excitement, and it took them over a week to arrive. They should have rushed.

  
The city was on fire, the training tents, the saarebas quarters, they were all burning, had been for a while by the look of it. The Chargers didn’t enter at first, got the warning from the massive spiral of smoke, and made their way to a vantage point.

  
It was Tal Vashoth.

The Chargers hadn’t killed all of the rebels. It would have taken them months to hunt them all down and there would always be more of them. They had taken out the leaders, as was expected of them, and taken out a lot of the troops on the way there, but the masses were still uncontained. They had made new leaders, and now they were taking vengeance.

They charged their horses down and into the remains of the city, where a battle three days old was still going strong. They rammed their horses into the first of who they saw, not sure who was Tal Vashoth and who was still loyal to the Qun. There was no Tal Vashoth uniform and confusion was the best tactic at hand.

Krem was the first one off of his horse, swinging wildly with his hammer at the heaviest parts of the fray. Krem always was trying to prove himself. Bull was down next, ready to cover him, cutting down anyone that got in his way, who was angry and tried to hit him first. Dalish, Rocky, and Stitches remained on their horses as long as possible, moving through the battle, shooting off their projectiles. Explosions, both Rocky’s and not, erupted in the distance. Grimm was down and cutting through the enemies with his sword, eyes wide and searching. Skinner was laughing, not riding a horse but was on top of a massive Tal Vashoth, and she steered him by the horns to whatever prey she wanted, stabbed him ruthlessly when he didn’t obey.

There was magic in the air, the smell of it buzzing, but the saarebas were hidden, for the most part, shooting off spells in secret, not getting in the way of heavy blows.

There was a scream and it meant nothing. There were screams all around, people with horns and arms cut off, eyes gouged and throats slit. Screaming was commonplace. But Bull knew the sounds that his boy’s made and there was no ignoring that that one came from Stitches.

He abandoned Krem, he could take care of himself and if he couldn’t, his hammer could, and carved his way to Stitches. Wide swings and ferocious roars cut down whatever enemies were in his path and those who had the knowledge and ability dodged out of the way of his massive weapon, stayed away from his rage. By the time he got to his doctor, he was completely coated in blood, all but one hand and a horn.

Stitches was down, one leg pinned under his fallen horse, and he was pushing the carcass off to no avail. No one was attacking him though and, other than his leg, he seemed to be unhurt. His skin though, it flickered, and purple lightning arched around him, threatening any who’d try to touch him.

The saarebas stood over him, staffless and shackleless, casting spells without any fear of running low on mana. Anything that approached, anyone who raised a bow, and the saarebas was shooting them down with lightning or fire or some terrible spell that Bull didn’t know, which made its targets scream and attack their companions, terrified.

The saarebas’ mask was cracked and there was blood staining it from underneath. His arms had been cut, as had his back, and there were bruises blossoming around the old scar tissue there. He wore saarebas armor, but it didn’t cover much, and three days of fighting had taken their toll.

There were Qunari dying everywhere, but the saarebas had decided to protect Stitches of all people. He must have remembered, after a whole year, The Chargers, how they’d tried to help.

Bull kept fighting, keeping as many Tal Vashoth away from the saarebas - from Dorian - as he could. They needed him alive. No matter what he did though, it was obvious that the magic was failing. With his mask on, his lips sewn, there was no way he could drink lyrium, and he was running low on his magic. Exhausted, he tried to ignore that fact, keep going, but he was going to fall.

Bull inched closer, waiting for the right moment, eye shifting from the – from Dorian – to Stitches, always swinging his axe, never letting anything get too close. He had a blind spot and, as long as he was constantly attacking, nothing would fall into it.

Dorian was made up of blind spots, the mask keeping him focused. Bull saw a Tal Vashoth creep into his space, screamed, but went unheard. She hit Dorian with her club and he fell, easy, tumbling to his knees. Still conscious, he raised his hands, using his last mana to cast a barrier on himself. He would survive this.

Bull charged her, knocked her away with his horns and then shoved his axe deep into her sternum. She coughed up blood and then was dead.

The saarebas was unconscious, Stitches was almost out from under the horse, and the battle was still raging. Bull stood guard over both of them, knowing that if he touched them he would burn, their barriers still too strong. But he could protect them, fight off anything that came near them, until the spells wore off.


	9. The Stitching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry its been so long. I've been really sic

The mask had been wrenched off, as were most of the clothing that made up the saarebas’ uniform. Rocky and Skinner were wiping Dorian down, water filled rags turned red. Gashes oozed and the mage breathed in hard grunts through his nostrils.

 

Krem had been the one to grab the saarebas and run for it, back out of the city and down towards the coast. They could get a ship, get out of there, but not yet. They had to get him stable first.

 

It wouldn’t be that big of a deal, one missing saarebas. With so many dead, the Qun would just think he was another of the fallen.

 

There was a good chance he would be too.

 

Stitches pushed through them to the man amongst them, solves and poultices and bandages in hand. There was a nasty gash over one eye, a bit of blood blinding him, but he’d be fine. The mage – Dorian – had seen to that.

 

He sat beside the stranger, tended to his wounds, opened one eye and then the next, checking them for something. Then pastes of herbs were pressed against wounds, bandages put in place to keep them there, apply pressure to stop the bleeding.

 

Most of The Chargers stayed away, knew that their presence would just be bothersome. Dalish was there though, just on the outskirts, praying. Krem and Grimm were going through their luggage, seeing if there was anything they could dress the saare - Dorian – in. Bull was keeping an eye out, wandering around their makeshift camp, making sure no trouble had followed them.

 

“Malnourished.” Stitches popped up beside him, wiping the blood from his brow. “Concussed. Mana drop. All sorts of gashes and cuts, but those are surface things, they’ll heal. One on his shoulder is badly infected though, probably from before the fighting started.”

 

Mana drop was bad but it would come back over time, like being too tired. The concussion would take some care and delicacy. Even the malnourishment could be tackled without too much of an issue. “Should I be worried?”

 

“About his physical condition?” Stitches scanned the forests, harvested in places, given new growth in others. The Qun used everything it could. “No. Not so sure about his mental though.”

 

“You give him his mouth?” Bull straightened his posture. He needed to sit. His knee was aching and his own wounds needed tending too.

 

“Not yet.” Stitches admitted. “Wanted him to be awake for that. Didn’t want to rush him too much.”

 

Bull looked at him. He’d seen his share of shit in his time but Stitches had been a healer since he was eight, oddly enough. Started off small, cats and dogs and little sister with banged up knees, working his way up to warriors and spies and not-mages. He’d even worked at a circle for a while, a bad one that had almost been destroyed from the inside. He knew the affects torture could have on someone.

 

“No, he’ll need time. We’ll ask him in a bit.”


	10. The Waking

Dorian was groggy when he woke, but silent, the only sounds coming from him being the gurgling of his stomach. It was impossible to tell when he’d eaten last, there wasn’t much time for it in the middle of battle, and seeing as how no one had bothered to do much more than unbind him, it was most likely to have been days. 

He looked over those watching him, with a glazed expression, looking but not really seeing. It was a side effect of the concussion, that’s what Stitches said anyway, but it seemed to be more than that to Bull. The way he looked, he was searching for something and, when he saw Bull, he seemed to have found it. 

Dorian shuffled out from underneath the blankets that The Chargers had crowded over him, and made his way over. His steps were uncertain and his hands went out to keep him from stumbling, but when Dalish got up, tried to help him, he pushed her away. When Stitches told him to sit, that he needed rest, he ignored it. He didn’t care about anything but Bull and he was trying to hide the fact that each step hurt. 

When he knelt before Bull, it was obvious that he was falling to his knees, but his shoulders remained squared and his hands were steady. There was sweat behind his ears, making his shaggy hair curl and cling to his neck. It was almost hard to see the dark stitches around his mouth through the dark black of beard. 

He breathed loudly through his nostrils, steadying himself before looking up at Bull. It would have been impossible to tell that this was the man in Halward’s portrait, if they hadn’t seen him a year before. Before he was terribly thin and weak, before scars had etched themselves across most of his skin, before the shine but not the light had left his silver eyes. 

“You doing okay there, big guy?” Bull couldn’t ignore the fact that the saarebas was bowing before him, but he cracked a smile all the same. He had to lighten the situation somehow and all his boys were staring now. “You need some pants or something?”

Dorian cocked his head slightly, looking him over, trying to read what kind of man Bull was. Many had tried and most were wrong. He didn’t care about his nudity, not now, and his skin was many shades darker than it had been before he’d broken. 

Bull licked his lips to dry them and looked around the tent. “We find any pants, guys?” he didn’t like the bowing, he didn’t like the saarebas looking at him like he was the only one who could do what he needed, to control him. 

Grimm nodded and left the tent, just for a moment. Grimm was larger than Dorian, Krem smaller, but they must have found something that would work. 

Bull reached out with his missing digits, the stumps of fingers and the scarred palm. The mage practically nuzzled against it, leaning forward to press the cold clamminess of his cheek into it. This was a very sick man. 

Bull’s thumb stroked over the thick black thread, tickled by rough beard hair. “You want these out?”

The saarebas opened his eyes and the fire was back in them, looking up at Bull through his thick lashes. That was a yes if Bull knew anything. 

He took the dagger from his belt, cut the stitches easily and then, holding the mage’s jaw steady in one hand, pulled the black threads out, slow and easy. He kept his eye open, looking for discomfort, fear or pain, but Dorian held true until all of the cut ends were through, not pulling away to cause bleeding. 

“Better?” 

Bull was expecting an answer, some snark response, a thank you. What he wasn’t expecting was for Dorian to open his mouth and stare up at Bull with his pupils blown, arousal turning his cheeks flush. When Bull didn’t respond he leaned forward, his height while on his knees perfect to rub his nose along the crotch of Bull’s pants, to find his flaccid member through the coarse material and press in. 

Within moments Bull was growing hard, Dorian nuzzling his dick and licking at the material of his clothing, making it all the more noticeable how turned on he was by the display. 

Bull pushed Dorian away, eye going to his companions. They were all just sitting there, in shock, not knowing how to respond. Dorian was on the ground, head possibly pounding and vision reeling, mouth still open and waiting. 

Of course. Of course that was the first thing that Dorian would do once his lips were freed. He had Caasitan as his avaarad. Dorian knew, had learned, that his mouth was only to be used to feed, and the first thing it should feed on was the pleasure of his master. With no other Qunari around, that must have been Bull. 

And now Dorian looked frightened. He wasn’t being used like he was used. He was being tossed aside, unwanted, and the thoughts that must have been going through his head. He climbed back to his knees but this time the bow was in cowering, a shiver running through his spine that brought a horrible burning to Bull’s eye. This was not the bow of respect, not a nobles son displaying himself, this was a slave, terrified of abuse, exposing his scar covered back so the punishment would be swift. A punishment for a crime not committed. 

He jumped when Bull laid a hand on him, but did not cast a barrier, did not defend himself in any way. Bull’s hand was soft though, reassuring, and he kept it still against the cold and shaking skin. 

“Hey, none of that now.” Bull climbed onto the floor beside him, trying to be comforting, not knowing how really. No one was helping him. He wanted their help. They didn’t want to make things worse though, he was sure of that. “This isn’t the Qun, you’re free of that. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, you’re not going to be punished.”

A wretched sound came from Dorian’s throat and it took too long for Bull to realize that it was a whimper. Pain and terror in equal measures. 

“Stitches?” Bull looked up, found the doctor in the midst of stares. The man was up to his feet in a moment, grabbing a bowl full of herbs and poultice, and stepped over, feet careful not to make too much noise or step on too many toes. 

“Hey hey.” Stitches smiled as he joined Dorian and Bull on the floor, trying to lift Dorian’s face with his voice and one delicate hand, “Your painkillers are starting to wear off, huh? Time to get back in bed.”

Dorian glared at him for a moment but then, with a new shiver that left beads of sweat on his skin, he complied. He let Stitches help him to his feet, lead him back to the cot he’d spent far too long on already. 

Bull couldn’t do this. He couldn’t take this man back to Tevinter, back to the life of a noble. This man was broken. This man wasn’t Halward’s son. 

This was going to take a lot of work.


	11. The Waiting

Dorian didn’t fit into the clothing given to him, it was baggy and the shoulders kept slipping and if it weren’t for Krem’s belt being pierced with new holes for the buckle, there would be no way he was keeping those pants up. He looked sickly, pale and frail, dressed like that, but it covered the scars. 

The real problem was that he wouldn’t speak. They’d all tried, Dalish calm and sweet and patient, Skinner loud and demanding, Rocky with harsh grunts, and Krem in Tevine. That had been the most interesting response. Krem had saddled up beside Dorian, said something Bull didn’t understand, and Dorian perked up in recognition. He’d stared at Krem, eyes wide and mouth fighting the urge to quirk up at the edges, while Krem spoke nonsense, but he did not respond. Not with words, anyway. He did nuzzle Krem’s shoulder, lower his head and keep his eyes soft. 

He was acting like a tamed animal for the man that spoke his language. He started following Krem around, trusted him more than the others, all but Bull. Treat a man like a dog and he may just become one. The Qun was always good at making people into what it wanted. 

With Bull though, he was a cat, more specifically, a cat in heat. His eyes were always blown, he was always on his knees, ready for Bull to take his mouth, or worse, facing away from him, face against the floor, hands at his belt, ready for him. It didn’t matter who was around, what The Chargers were doing, the moment Bull did anything with some authority, Dorian was there, ready to be used. 

Bull always pulled him to his feet, dusted him off, and told him no. Each time looked like a slap to the face. Each time Dorian slinked off with his back exposed and waiting for some kind of punishment. 

Bull spoke softer, kinder. He touched more; asked instead of demanded. It helped. 

They were waiting for the ship. They had been camped there for days, far too long, but the ship was nowhere in sight. They couldn’t take Dorian back to Tevinter, not until he was at least speaking, but they couldn’t stay in Par Vollen. If they were caught, they’d all be punished, The Chargers with their lives, Bull with reeducation, Dorian with… Bull didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think of any of the pains that had been marked into Dorian’s body. 

Stitches was the one who had to deal with that, with undressing and redressing his wounds, taking care of the infection in his shoulder, making sure that he ate enough but not too much. He always finished with seat on his brow, a bit of blood on his hands and wetness in his eyes. He wouldn’t talk to anyone after working on Dorian, not for a while, and when he was more composed he’d tell Bull about any updates. 

It was all bad. 

The Chargers were all being good though, talking with Dorian, getting him more familiarized with how people were supposed to be. And that was a thought, how people were supposed to be. Bull had always thought that the Qun was right in that, the rest of the world was wrong. But Dorian was proof against that and the laughter around him, while he just looked confused and skittish, it was helping. 

Bull sighed and kept his eye on the sea, spotting the dark speck in the distance of a ship coming towards them.


	12. The Start

He was moving, hands before him, fingers tapping against one another. His eyes were darting around, staring at the approaching ship, at his feet, at The Chargers. He was pacing. Sweat dripped down his back, making Grimm’s shirt dark on against his skin. 

“What’s up with him?” Bull asked, watching Dorian’s anxiety rise from a distance. 

“I’m not an expert,” Stitches crossed his arms, “But I’d guess he has a problem with boats.”

Bull huffed, hot air coming from his nostrils and approached the mage. There wasn’t time for fear, not when they needed to be packing up, and Dorian was in the way of The Chargers getting everything nice and sorted. 

“Dorian?” he asked, keeping his voice as calming as he could. He’d prefer if Krem did this, or Stitches, but Dorian responded to him differently than the rest, and he wanted to help. 

Asking his name, apparently, did not help. Dorian shuddered and flared, pulsing flames licking his skin as a barrier came into life around him. Bull pulled back, stopped, and looked around. He was no good at that magic crap. Luckily, Dalish had noticed the fires around Dorian and had paused in her packing Skinner’s things. She hurried over, ready to stop Dorian’s magic, to help, but Dorian softened, shoulders drooping, hands coming together like they were shackled there, and the barrier fell. 

He was looking up at Bull, body relaxed, docile, submissive. He shuffled towards him, not noticing Dalish, and it was clear that he was still panicking. His hands were trembling, his eyes, while down, were wet and searching. 

He fell to his knees, not offering his mouth or services, but his back. He lay there, head to the ground, hands hiking up his borrowed shirt to expose the scar there, to ask for punishment. 

Bull joined him in the dirt, knee hitting so hard that it lit his nerves. His hands were so soft, taking Dorian’s stopping him from stripping himself. They moved to his shoulders, to push him up, and then to his chin, lifting his head so that he could look him in the eyes. They were bristling with tears, ready to fall, to stream down his face. He wouldn’t make eye contact, keeping his gaze to the side, away from the sea. 

“Hey, Dorian, look at me.” Bull pleaded, trying not to have it come out as an order. Dorian’s eyes moved, going over Bull, settling on his shoulder. “No, all the way, look me in the eye, please.”

Dorian winced, expecting a hit that would never come, but did as he was beckoned. He was about to break. 

Bull ran a thumb against Dorian’s cheek, making his breath hitch, making him shudder. He was terrified, as much by the sea as he was of Bull. 

“You don’t have to be afraid, Dorian. It’s just a boat. We need to get you away from Par Vollen. That’s going to be the fastest way.” 

Dorian glanced at the ship for a moment before looking back at Bull. A horrible sound came from his throat. It was a rumbling, high pitched note, quiet and weak. 

“What is it?” Bull didn’t stop stroking Dorian’s cheek, feeling the thick hair of his beard against his thumb. “You get sick?”

Dorian nodded. That horrible sound didn’t stop. 

“Well, that’s okay. I’ll hold your hair back if you need to puke or anything. Stitches can give you something to settle your stomach.”

The sound didn’t stop, but it did pause. His voice hitching and the noise sputtering. Bull felt his own breath catch as he realized what it was. Dorian was whimpering. 

“You think this makes you weak?” Bull asked and that was it, that was what made the tears spill over. Dorian tried to stay quiet, tried to pull away from Bull’s grip, hide the tears. The Qun was no good with weaknesses. 

Bull grabbed him rougher now, pulled him in so that Dorian’s face was against his neck, allowed him to hide his wet and red face against his shoulder. Dorian was trying to stay quiet, to not let it be known that he could cry, another thing that had been taken from him by the Qun. Bull ran his hand down Dorian’s back, feeling the raised and creased skin through his shirt, and rubbed the back of his head with the other one. He felt Dorian shake and whine and sob against him, but did nothing to stop it. 

He put his lips to Dorian’s ear, just close enough to brush his lips against it. “You’re not weak. Not for this. I promise you that you are strong. All The Chargers? Me? We all have our fears, things that we can’t do anything about, but we do them anyway. You’re like us, maybe even more brave. You’ve been through so much, we just want to take you away from this, want you safe. A little bit of seasickness is nothing.”

Dorian made a choking sound, a hiccup, and cried harder. It was good. It was a release. Dorian hadn’t allowed himself to do anything like this in their presence. Bull took that as a good sign, didn’t stop stroking him. 

“Once we get across the water, land on the other side, I’m going to spoil you, okay? Anything you want.” Bull promised. 

Dorian pulled away from him then, looked him sternly in the eyes. His sobs were passed, at least for the moment, but his face was soaking with mucous and tears. His eyes were red, making the silver even brighter. 

He pulled at the shirt he was wearing, old and worn and far too large. 

“You want your own clothes?” Bull chuckled. 

Dorian pulled at the shirt again. 

“Yeah, yeah, We’ll get you your own clothes.”

Dorian made a face that could have been a smile. Bull laughed at the sight of it. A bit more practice and it could be the most beautiful sight in the world, Dorian Pavus smiling.


	13. The Water

¬¬¬¬¬It was all Bull could do to keep out of Dorian’s small room. He was supposed to be sharing it, with Krem and Grimm, but Stitches would have none of that. The mage had spent most of the morning with his arms thrown over the side of the ship, retching, and Bull had kept his promise to hold his hair back. Now he was asleep, a salve on his head to keep away fever, one on his belly to keep away nausea, and a potion to put him to sleep. 

The only one worse was Rocky and they’d already gotten a room set up for him, right next to Dorian’s. He was glad for the medicines, took them without question, but it didn’t help the fact that when he’d had to hurl, Krem had had to pick him up so that it would all go into the ocean. 

Dalish wandered the corridor, below decks, her hand searching the wood of the vessel. It was something she did, to buildings and trees alike. Bull knew it was just a texture thing, it soothed her when she was nervous, but he always wondered if it was some elf thing, trying to feel what the wood had been before. 

“You need me?” he asked, stepping away from Dorian’s door. 

The tips of her ears went red as she stopped stroking, looking at him as if she somehow didn’t notice him. 

“You need to talk to me alone?” Bull reworded. 

She nodded. 

He didn’t know where the others were, it wasn’t enough of a concern. They were big kids, they knew how to stay out of trouble, and they knew when they should stay out of trouble. He followed Dalish, feeling too large for the boat, ducking under beams and squeezing through passages. She didn’t have any problems with them. 

She and Skinner were sharing a room, as usual, although Grimm would now have to join them, much to Skinner’s chagrin. She let him in, making sure the door was locked behind him. They were a group of mercenaries, none of them had any problems with a lock, but it let Bull know that she was serious about something. 

“What’s up?” Bull asked, leaning against the wall. Dalish was situating herself on the bed, taking her time with it too, but Bull didn’t dare join her. The beds on ships were weak and light, not sturdy enough for his mass. 

“Dorian’s mana drop is over.” She explained, her voice quiet. 

“Yeah.” Bull nodded, “Good thing too. Stitches said that it can be a real hassle, lots of overcompensating and injuring yourself further during that. Like he’d know. He’s not a mage.”

“Not really a good thing.” Dalish stared up at him through her thick lashes. 

“What do you mean?” Bull didn’t attempt to hide the fact he was gawking. Mages loved magic, or they feared it, there was no in between. And the way that Dorian had commanded it in battle, even without a staff, the way the barriers had snapped into place by instinct, he was the kind of man who would appreciate having it back. 

“There’s a reason I’m not a mage, Bull.” Dalish drew her hands close to her sides, hands gripping the wood of the bed. Her shoulders were raised, her ankles crossed, and she looked absolutely tiny. “Him getting his magic back… I don’t know what kind of mage he is but he’s going to draw attention. Especially since he’s Tevine. They actually like magic.”

Bull breathed through his nose, stubborn. Attracting attention was something that The Chargers did well and it had never turned out badly for them. They were noisy and helpful and always tipped, so they had a good reputation even when they got kicked out of taverns. They could keep Dorian under wraps. 

“I know what you’re thinking, but it’s more than that.” Dalish was practically squirming now. “What happened to him, being a bas saarebas, it’s changed the way he uses magic. Right now, it’s weak, a small trickle coming back, and his reserves are so dry he’s just soaking it up. Soon, he’ll have too much mana and the only way the Qun let him get rid of that was by purging it. I’m scared he’s going to blow us all up.”

“He’s not going to blow us up.” Bull shook his head. He didn’t believe any of this. 

“He won’t mean to.” Dalish pouted, “But that’s trauma for you. That’s fear. They took control of his magic for him, decided when and how it was used. Now, he has no anchor, he has no orders, and the shackles that kept him in check are gone.”

“Good riddance.” Bull interjected. 

“But now we have no way of controlling him either.”

Bull glared at her, tracing her features, hoping that somewhere there was a joke. There was no controlling Dorian, there was no keeping his magic under wraps, as much as it terrified Bull, there was no more punishing him for doing things he couldn’t control. Dorian would be in control of his magic and no one would stop him. 

“Good.”

Dalish perked up, ears heightened. “What? That’s not good! Bull, he could kill us all in his sleep from some nightmare!”

“And if he tries we’ll take care of it.” Bull shrugged. “He’s a fucked up, scared, little kid, and he thinks we’re going to hurt him like the Qun did. I’m not going to let him think any of that is true. He needs help healing and binding him or trapping his magic or whatever, isn’t going to do anything but damage him further.”

“Bull-“ Dalish pushed herself forward, making herself larger, but she was still a tiny little thing. 

“No. If you need to, you can put up some barriers, but otherwise, he’s going to take care of his magic in his own way.”


	14. The Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so dang long again. I've been off and on and off and on again on my antidepressants which has given my mind such a jumble I literally couldnt type more than three words at a time and then a third of them would be misspelled. Dont turn 26, okay? It's really annoying all the hoops you have to jump through to switch your insurance.

It wasn’t until the third day at sea that Dorian’s magic really came back and, when it did, there was no way he was quiet about it. It was the closest he’d made to noise so far, writhing and whimpering, crying out and then hushing himself. 

It was the middle of the night. Bull was awake, Seheron wouldn’t let him sleep for more than a few hours, and he could hear Dorian through the wall. At first he thought it was Rocky, sick from the rocket of the ship, but the dwarf was on the other wall. Dorian was in between. 

Bull knew the sounds of nightmares, had heard them coming from his boys many nights. Even though he didn’t have them, the descriptions were bad enough that he didn’t want to. And then there was what had happened to Dorian. He didn’t know how he’d live through dreams like those. 

Bull barely even bothered to pull on pants before he was out of his room, racing down the few feet over to Dorian’s door. For a moment he stood there, not sure whether or not he should enter, but there was no point in knocking, not now. 

The door wasn’t even locked. 

It also wouldn’t have lasted a few more minutes, what with the flames that were eating away at it. Bull cried out in surprise and then a second time, this time for Dalish. She wasn’t a mage, but she would know what to do. The fire was everywhere, flames licking at the sad painting on the wall, devouring the bed around Dorian, and soaking into the floor and walls. 

Bull couldn’t get in, couldn’t reach Dorian, who was writhing in the bad, fire dancing along his skin. It burned into the lent clothing, threatened his beard and hair, but Dorian’s eyes were still squeezed shut, his mouth open as he gasped and choked on the nightmare that held him. 

He called out to Dalish again but it was more than just Dalish that came. Skinner was right behind her, making sure she was actually dressed enough, and Stitches was rounding the corner. Krem hadn’t even bothered putting on his binder and Grimm was right on his heels. Rocky was the only one not with them and he was too drugged to notice if the fire consumed his room as well. 

It didn’t take a word but a pointed finger and Dalish was racing inside of the burning room, putting up a barrier and walking gingerly towards the bed. The others stared, mouths open, unable to do a single thing. 

Her hand was suddenly covered in ice and she touched it to Dorian’s forehead, letting the coolness of her fingers soothe his sweat slicked skin. He stopped shaking, stopped writhing, and soon went still and silent. 

The whimpering got worse for a moment but then stopped, as did the writhing. Slowly, Dorian opened an eye and looked up at her. 

“There we go.” Dalish fluttered her hand away. “Had a nasty dream did we? Well we’re all awake now and it’s time to put out these nasty fires.”

Dorian looked at where she was gesturing, head still messed up from Stitches’ medications. The fires were licking at Dalish’s barrier, burning away at Dorian’s body, but neither of them seemed particularly bothered by them. He just pulled his knees up to his chest and then the fires went small and smaller and sizzled out. 

She bent forward and put a hand on his shoulder. From the look on his face he very much did not want it there. “You want to talk about it? I mean, you can draw me a picture of what it was. I can probably guess though.” 

“Dalish.” Bull grunted from the doorway. 

Her barrier flickered and went out. Dorian stared at her, wide eyed, wanting to pull away but being confined to a very small cot. 

“Dalish.” Bull demanded, louder now, and she looked up, saw them all staring, and flitted back out of the room, to Skinner’s side. 

Dorian seemed to calm down more once he saw Bull. 

“Fireworks are over.” Bull shooed The Chargers back in the direction of their own rooms. “Krem, you want to translate for me here?”

“He speaks fine trade.” Krem shrugged. His voice sounded weird, too high pitched and fast. When he was properly awake it would smooth out more. “Tevine is just safer for him, I think.” He went back to his shared room with Grimm, not saying anything further. 

Bull breathed in and out a few times, trying to settle his nerves. He didn’t like magic. He didn’t understand it. Every second around a mage was a second away from being around an abomination. And then there was that power that he couldn’t match. The room was blackened with soot, Dorian’s clothing was mostly burned away and if that had been Bull in there he would have been dead. 

Dorian just sat there, patient, looking at Bull like he was the world. 

And Bull couldn’t be the world for him. He limped inside, leg hurting like it normally did after a bad night, and made it to Dorian’s side. The bed itself had been blessedly saved from the ashes, and Dorian scooted his legs to the side to give Bull space. He sighed and took it. 

“Dorian.” He tried to keep his voice smooth, confident, he was glad that Dorian’s magic was coming back, as terrifying as it was. He was worried though, he knew how bad the dream must have been. 

Dorian lowered his head and held out his hands. They were loose fists, palms held almost together, wrists weak. Bull knew what he was asking for immediately. 

He put his hand on one of Dorian’s and gently pushed it down to the mattress. “No, I’m not going to cuff you. You’re not going to be in manacles or a collar again.”

Dorian’s face twisted into agonizing need and terror at his own strength. He pushed his hands out again, shaking them, demanding as much as he could for the Qun’s control. 

Bull kissed the knuckles given to him and placed them once more on the bed. Dorian looked bewildered, confused, his long bangs stuck to his forehead with sweat. Bull brushed the locks away, not hesitating when Dorian flinched, but touching softer. 

“No punishments. No shackles. No orders.” Bull promised, his fingers trailing down Dorian’s jaw through his beard. “We got you away from all that for a reason. You’re not going back to it either.”

Dorian’s lips twisted and pulled. His eyes became terrible wrinkles. His nostrils flared and a horrible high pitched whine came from his throat. 

Bull took him by the shoulders, pulled him in and kissed his temple, his forehead, his hair. He kept his touches as light as rain, allowing Dorian to do what he needed to. In this case it was to sob, either from confusion, fear, or realization it was impossible to tell. He was not alright. He would probably never be alright. But he was making more noise than before, allowing himself to, and that was progress. Bull held him close and rocked him until the crying stopped. 

“That fire scared the shit out of me.” He murmured into Dorian’s hair. “Impressive.”

He could feel the tickling of Dorian’s mustache as the man smiled at that small remark.


	15. The Rumors

Bull couldn’t stop smiling, but, then again, neither could Dorian. They’d all been worried about taking him into an actual town, how he would react to so many people, if there would be a flair of magic to get them all taken down by templars. Dorian was enjoying himself though, making small chirping sounds when he thought no one would hear him, flitting from the booth of one merchant to the next. 

People didn’t seem to like him, a few even glared at him as if he were some vagrant. He didn’t seem to care too much though, ignored all of the looks that were directed at him. 

There was a salon though and Dorian actually grabbed Krem by the arm, dragged him over to the small establishment. He pointed and hopped, looking from Krem to Bull with excitement and need. Bull chuckled. Dorian looked a mess, a haircut and a shave would do him a great deal of help, although the borrowed clothes would have to go as well. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Bull shooed the two men inside. “We’ll be looking for a tailor, your highness. Try not to get too carried away.” 

Dorian flashed him a smile, his eyes crinkling at the edges, as he pulled the disgruntled lieutenant inside. Krem needed a haircut too, although he’d never admit it. Bull just hoped he’d keep Dorian calm if anything went awry and would translate whatever he needed to. He was pretty good at reading Dorian by now. 

That left Bull and The Chargers to explore the market though, and Bull needed to find a courier while keeping his eye out for Dorian’s tailor. It had been two weeks since they found Dorian and Halward needed an update. They wouldn’t be taking him home, not until he was better, when he was verbal again and not so fragile. 

Bull wasn’t the strangest in Rivain, so close to Par Vollen, and people just assumed he was there with the rest of the Qunari that wandered through the open market. Some waved to him, some offered him fruit or gems from their inventories, and some thanked him and his kind for their work against bandits. Apparently, the Qun had been there a while, helping out, and at least this city liked them. 

Skinner was fine taking whatever was given to them, as was Grimm and Rocky, but Dalish and Stitches were more grateful. They actually wanted to pay for the gifts these strangers offered. 

It was Grimm though, halfway through a large block of Rivain cheese, who noticed. His eyes went wide and he grabbed at Bull, turning his attention to a couple of men at one of the stalls. He didn’t need to hear their accents to recognize the pair as Tevine, what with their black robes and gold jewelry. They must have been using some kind of magic; Rivain was blisteringly hot and these guys weren’t even sweating. 

Normally he wouldn’t even care about a small group of Tevine’s even if they were this close to Par Vollen, but it was what they were saying. 

“The magisterium is in shambles. Has been for almost a year now.” One was complaining, “If we’re not careful, there won’t be an assembly by the time we become magisters.”

“A year? Darling, no. It’s been a mess ever since that Pavus whore made his debut. Might be an altus but when daddy’s running around cleaning up after all your messes, it’s hard to do anything else. The magisterium has been helping that house far more than they deserve.”

“I heard that he was gone somehow, what was his name, Dominus?”

“Dorian.” 

Bull’s teeth were clenched. Dorian wasn’t a whore, not in Par Vollen and not in Tevinter. He tried not to let his anger show, especially as he drew closer to hear the conversation. 

“Dorian’s the little slut’s name. He’s probably holed up with some elf somewhere. You heard about that right? When he went missing for weeks and Halward got half the county hunting him down. Found him post coitus, still wrapped up in his little knife ear.”

Bull didn’t want to hear any of this. He looked down at Grimm, looking for some excuse to leave, but the man was silent as usual and didn’t offer him any. The others were all gone though, having left to continue through the market. They’d have to catch up. 

It was odd though, running into someone right when they were talking about Dorian. It set Bull’s nerves alight. Something more was going on.


	16. The Drink

Dorian Pavus was a handsome man, the curl of his mustache mirroring the smirk to his lips. His eyes were bright and shining, alive with a passion that many fail to match. His hips cocked and his hands gestured, embellishing his taut muscles and dripping his sarcasm. He was power and strength and fury, all wrapped in elegant silks and leathers. 

If it hadn’t been for the dotting of scars around his lips and they way he jumped too easily at the sound of Bull’s voice, he would have been unrecognizable. 

His face had been shaved, all but a small triangle under his lip and his mustache, which had been expertly waxed and styled. His hair no longer reached his shoulders, but was buzzed around his ears, only leaving a peak of thick darkness around his hairline, brushed down and up and pushed into a range above his head. 

His clothing was simple, a dark red robe of silk with a thick belt to keep it out of the way during travels. Knee high boots with embossed textures that matched the leather bracers, cuffed with elegant gold clasps. He had twirled in the robes as soon as Grimm had brought them to their rooms at the inn, had blushed and smiled, and become something closer to the man he was before he’d become saarebas. 

He was also, somewhat, drunk. They all were. Krem had used the last of his share of Pavus money to buy a cask of ale and they were all drinking from it a bit more merrily than they should have been. They were out of Par Vollen though, free of the outreach of the Qun, at least for the moment. More money was coming to them, they’d been paid half before they returned Dorian home. 

Dorian had no tolerance and he was flushed after one solid drink. It had been a year since he’d had any alcohol and there was no way for The Chargers to know how much he drank before he’d gone to Par Vollen. Still, he drank like he loved the stuff, like it was water, like it was air. And Bull kept up with him, they all did, and then they surpassed him. 

By the time Bull was drunk, Dorian was close to passing out, leaning on walls with low cast eyes. Those eyes, foggy and silver, roamed over Bull’s body, not like he was an arvaarad, but like he was a statue of some great god. Muscles and scars were mapped out under that gaze and Dorian’s hand came to twiddle his mustache, fix one end that had begun to droop. 

Bull couldn’t deny that he liked the attention, especially once his head was both too heavy and too light from the alcohol. 

This was bad. He normally didn’t get drunk, not like this. He had a high tolerance and, above that a duty, to his boys and to the Qun and alcohol could make a mess of everything. 

Rocky poured him another. They were all loud, too loud, in Bull’s room. It wasn’t the biggest and it only had one bed, but they had all crowded in it once Krem had opened the cask. The Chargers knew how to party and, they deserved it. They were in Nevarra, the job was going well, Dorian was happy and healing well, both mentally and physically, the infection in his shoulder now just a scabbed over cut. 

Things got louder and Bull was expecting them all to get kicked out or for some neighbor to knock on their door and tell them to shut it. They had most of the floor to themselves though, giving them all their own room, although Dalish and Skinner were sharing one. The spare was good for their gear. 

Dorian flopped down on Bull’s bed, languid and red, from his nose to the tips of his ears. He looked good like this, soft, open, inviting. Bull wouldn’t, he wouldn’t dare take advantage of him, even though he raised an eyebrow when he caught Bull looking and spread his legs a bit, revealing burgundy trousers under his red robes. He wasn’t that kind of guy and Dorian, Dorian was too good for that anyway. It felt good though, to have Dorian no longer so frightened of him, to not shrink away or bow down or submit to him. 

It would have been so easy though, to lean over, to kiss Dorian’s lips. He wondered if they would be soft, if his larger lips would feel the scars on Dorian’s face, if Dorian would kiss him back. 

He didn’t know where the thought came from but he shelved it away to drunkenness. It wasn’t needed. It wasn’t helpful. 

Eventually, the party ended, although Bull didn’t know when. Eventually he went to sleep, although that was also a mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter was so weird. I wanted to do the next part and needed to set it up


	17. The Trap

¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬There was a weight on his chest. He was hot, uncomfortable, and however he shifted, he found no relief. 

Seheron was hot, even in the cooler months, and there was no escaping it. His vitaar was heavy and clinging to his skin, not allowing him to perspire. It was flaky and thick and suffocating. It was a good armor, a good weapon even on his flesh, but it attracted insects, the smell of foreign plants on his skin, and mosquitoes buzzed in his ears. He huffed, readjusted his grip on his axe, and led his platoon deeper into the jungle. 

There were cabins, spread out amongst the trees, where Tal Vishoth and the Seheron natives lived, and they had no idea which one was in which. They were checking them all, killing whoever opposed them, clearing out as many traitors as they could in a day’s sweep. 

One of them was hardly more than a hut, with a few animals hanging in front of the door, turning to jerky in the hot sun. Rabbits mostly, a few nugs, but nothing larger. There was crying from inside. 

Hissrad turned to the others, nodding. They all held back, let him take the first step inside. He gently rasped on the door before carefully opening it, letting sunlight spill into the cold darkness. There was a child, gray and thick, nubs of horns sprouting from her forehead, alongside the wall. She was dressed like a native of Seheron, simple cloth and red ropes to hold it firmly to her small body. She couldn’t have been older than ten but she was alone, crying softly, because she couldn’t hold it in, not because she wanted to draw attention. 

Hissrad had no control over his heart and it went out to her, as did one hand. He stepped inside, leaving his men outside, and spoke to her in soft tones. She stared at him, cried harder, and started shaking. He stopped, standing still, asking her what was wrong. He didn’t want to make her cry harder. 

She didn’t answer. 

Another step. A few more and he could touch her. He asked where her parents were. She shook her head, biting her lip. Dead then. 

Another step. She cried out, arms raised, warning him. Too late though. 

His boot caught on the trip wire and snapped it. There was a whirring sound and then, a thunderous cacophony as the wood above him snapped and tumbled down. Hit upon hit, he shouted as the ceiling collapsed, landed on top of him, crushing his chest. The girl was up and running, passing him to get to the door and out. 

He called out to his men, struggling to push the wood off of him, to get more air into his lungs. None answered his shouting, but they were shouting themselves. He could hear it, their struggling, their fighting off the Tal Vashoth that had laid the trap in the small cabin. Blows and shouts, screams of agony and the sound of burning. 

Hissrad pushed against the boards, tried to pry them off of himself. Some shifted, but there was too much of it, it was too heavy, and Hissrad was trapped. 

Footsteps, slow and methodical, too close and getting closer. Hissrad strained to turn, to see the Tal Vishoth that was approaching him. It was a mage, bound like it still belonged to the Qun. It’s manacles had been removed though and fire sprang to life at its fingertips. 

He struggled, shouted again. Still no response. He squeezed his eyes shut, expecting the worst. He could feel the heat of the magic, even hotter than the Seheron climate. It would be on his skin soon, engulfing him. 

How stupid! He should have known it was a trap. And obvious one at that. 

He opened his eye. Everything was dark but one spot, one horrible spot of fire, just about his face.

“Saarebas!” He hissed through grit teeth, lounging forward, finally knocking away the weight that was on his chest. The mage’s silver eyes were wide, surprised at Hissrad’s strength. 

The fire went out as Dorian, half undressed, fell to the floor. There was a grunt as he made contact than the rustling of clothing, and then the slamming of the door. 

The room was cold. It was the room of the inn, not some cabin floor in Seheron. He ran his hand over his face, finding that he was still wearing his eye patch. A dream then, a memory, when he’d lost consciousness after getting too drunk to do anything else. There was no weight on his chest, no traps waiting to be sprung, and the air was cool in temperature. He was alone, thankfully, and nothing was planning on hurting him. 

Dorian had been there, against him, lying on his chest in the dark. Now he was gone, run off into the night. Bull groaned and pulled himself from the bed. They hadn’t done anything, he was sure of that, he was still fully dressed. Dorian hadn’t been and, while it had been a while since Dorian had offered himself, there had been a lot of alcohol in both of their symptoms. 

But now Dorian was gone.


	18. The Words

It took far too long to get The Chargers out of bed. Some of them were dressed and those few grabbed gear, while the others grumbled into what little clothing they had time to spare for. Krem and Stitches were already hung over, Skinner and Dalish were still drunk, but it was impossible to tell with Grimm and Rocky may have never actually have gotten drunk in the first place. 

Then they were all down the stairs and out the front door of the inn, the man at the counter glaring at them for all of their ruckus. Bull just gave the man a wink and kept going, running outside, feeling a terrible twist in his ankle that threatened to worsen with time. 

Dorian was nowhere to be seen. Bull had already checked his room, then the rooms of his boys, and then explained as they forced themselves awake. He should have asked the inn keeper, but he doubted that the man would have any idea which way Dorian had run. There was a whole town of possibilities and, even worse, an entire countryside. 

He pointed into town, had Dalish, Rocky, and Skinner take that route, they could split up from there. Grimm and Stitches would head south east from the town, Bull and Krem south west. They’d meet back at the inn in an hour. It hadn’t been long. Dorian couldn’t have gotten far. Nothing could have gotten him in such a small amount of time. Everything would be alright. They’d find him. Bull would explain things. Everything would be okay. 

The thoughts were a chant, running through his head. They needed their horses, they’d cover more ground, but getting them would take too much time. He ran, Krem trying to keep up with his massive legs, and when Bull started limping, the pain in his ankle not so much a dull ache as the tightly clenched jaw of some gurgot, he reached out, gave Bull support. 

“Not far.” Krem promised, “Stupid ‘Vint’s just wandered off in the dark. You know how rich bastard’s are, can’t find their way in anything.”

It was comforting, a little, but in the fact that Krem was there for him, not that he believed him. 

But Dorian wasn’t hard to find. 

Their first sign as to his position was a scream. It wasn’t right, sounded half like a crow, half like a blade being scraped down sandpaper, the wrong way. It came from their right and as Bull turned, he almost knocked Krem over. The man was quick in his reflexes though, even with his hangover, and he caught on before he was completely toppled over. 

The second hint was magic. A massive plume of it brightened the night sky, snuffed out the stars ahead with its brilliance. It wasn’t fire, it was too dark for that, and it took a shape, all on its own. Purple in color, with sparks of brilliant reds and blues that shot off as lightning. It grew and rounded, the top of it taking the form of a skull. 

“Kaffas!” Krem gritted his teeth, not stopping a pace as he altered his angle for the new sign to Dorian’s location. “No one said he was a necromancer!”

Bull didn’t know what the plume meant, but it looked cool, even as it filled him with dread. Dorian had no need to be casting, he shouldn’t have been in any danger, not yet. Perhaps some wolves or bandits or something, but Bull shook his head and ran faster, remembering the terrible sound of that scream. 

Dorian was alone and untouched, a circle on the ground around him pulsing and throwing off violet sparks. He was kneeling in the grass, not caring about his new leathers, face lifted towards the sky, his face twisted in a terrible expression, just barely holding back his fear and rage. 

Bull slowed to a stop, grabbing Krem as his momentum forced him forward, trying to give Dorian space. From the looks of it he needed it and Bull didn’t want to chance getting hit with any of that death magic. 

“Dorian?” he kept his voice low, soft, like he was talking to a child separated from his tama, not a full grown altus. 

Dorian glared at him, fire springing to life on his arms. He spun to face the pair, standing as he did so, and tears ran down his face, unbridled. He wasn’t sobbing, just leaking, and he couldn’t stop the wetness from dribbling down his cheeks. 

“What do you want from me?” his voice cracked, hoarse from lack of use, and it was hardly about a whisper, even as he screamed at them. 

Bull held up his hands, splaying out what fingers he had. He wanted to run over there, be forceful, grab Dorian and stop all the magic from happening. “Just want to talk, Big Guy. It’s good to hear you talking.”

“Well, it’s not like you’re going to punish me for it!” Dorian snapped. The flames grew larger on his arms. “You don’t punish me for anything, not for magic, not for crying, not for disobeying so openly. You haven’t even taken me! What kind of arvaarad are you?”

Bull halted, his own heartbeat and thoughts the only thing in his mind for a moment. Arvaarad? He wasn’t, he’d never wanted Dorian to see him as that. He’d sensed it but, he’d tried so hard to not let Dorian feel that way, that Bull was in control. 

“I’m not… Caasitan was your arvaarad, but he isn’t any more. You’re free now. You’re no-

“Shut up!” Dorian flung his still burning hands over his ears, blocking out all sound. “Don’t you dare lie to me! This is a test! He’s done this before, given me to another, made me feel like I wasn’t saarebas anymore, only to have it all taken away!”

“What?” Krem glared at Bull and then to Dorian, eyes softening. “You think this is a test?”

Dorian could still hear them because he fell to his knees once more. “I’ve disobeyed, I’ve been bad, I’ve been such a terrible disappointment. And now you’re going to take me back and it’s all going to start again. He’ll say I don’t know my place and he’ll force me to take it.”

Bull wanted to grab him, wrap him in his arms, protect him from the world. He couldn’t though, not with that damn fire everywhere. And there was a noise, not from any of them, horses, racing towards them. That didn’t matter, it was just Dorian that mattered. 

“You’re not saarebas.” Bull promised, stepping forward loudly, letting Dorian know where he was at all time. “You’re Dorian Pavus, altus of House Pavus. You’re a necromancer, or something, and no one is going to take you back to Par Vollen, not ever.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Dorian finally took his hands down from his ears, even as the flames sparked and flew into a rage around him. “I know what you think of me, what you called me!”

Now Krem was glaring so hard it made the fine, almost invisible hairs and Bull’s back and neck rise. He was going to be killed for this. Instead, he climbed down into a sitting position, awkward with his bad leg, and sighed, closing his eyes. 

“I… Look, I was in a bad place, a long time ago, and sometimes, when I sleep, I go back there. We Qunari don’t dream, we don’t have a connection to the Fade, so we just remember all the nasty shit we’ve done in our lives. Normally, it’s all under control but, tonight, I don’t know, there was magic in the air or something, I lost it. I didn’t realize it was you, at first, who was in the room, and I thought some saarebas, a real saarebas, not you, was there. I would never call you that.”

The flames started to ebb, as if rain was pelting down on him, smothering them. He stopped crying, his face hardly red, and he glared at Bull with such a cold stare that he was sure he’d be burnt to a cinder for his accidental crime. 

“Don’t you remember? You’re the one who told me to give in, to be Saarebas. It would be easier if I stopped fighting it.”

Bull didn’t remember. He was good at remembering crap like that. He looked at Krem but, if he’d been afraid of Dorian’s fire, Krem’s was just as hot. 

The horses were almost upon them. 

“I…” Bull had no words, no excuse for what he’d said, “Shit.”

“I was going to keep fighting. Pavus’ are good to their word and their morals, or at least we should be. I was never going to let them break me. But you, you told me what they wanted me to hear, told me the truth. And I broke. I let them bind me and make me their object.”

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Dorian.” There was nothing else he could say.

“Sorry? That’s all you have to say?” Dorian’s face twisted. 

The horses surrounded Dorian, all large and black and carved, their coarse hair shaved into rings and decorations. Bull knew they were Tevine just from that alone, but the two men from before, the sons of Magister’s who’d been talking about Dorian before, were astride two of them, the other ridden by men he didn’t recognize. He knew those two were trouble. 

“Thanks for the flare.” One of the sons said, his accent different, more like Krem’s than Halward’s. Not a son then, a fake, probably talking about Dorian to see if anyone would react, see if anyone knew where he was. “Thought you were out of town by now.”

The flames rose once more on Dorian’s arms, strong and vicious. “Who are you?” he croaked, “I demand to know.”

“We’re just some humble business men.” Said the other, another soporati. “Come to harvest our product.”

Dorian blustered at that, face finally turning red. “Product? How dare you you refer to me-

One of the men that Bull didn’t recognize snapped his fingers. The flames on Dorian died instantly. Dorian turned, looking up and up the side of the decorated horse, skin paling. 

“No, vishante kaffas, no.” the words were hardly more than a whisper but Bull had heard Krem say them enough to know what they were. “Non tibi, placet!”

“Qui sunt illi?” Krem immediately rushed in, not caring that Bull had no idea what he was sayin. 

“Placet!” Dorian raised his hands over his head, folding in on himself. Even under the Qun he’d had some semblance of pride, stood straight, asked for punishment instead of shying away from it. This was something else completely. He was crumbling, ready to fall to the man’s whim who’d turned off his flame. 

Bull didn’t need anything more than that. 

He squared his shoulders, lowered his horns, and charged, screaming as he did. If the other Chargers heard him, they’d come running, but he couldn’t rely on them. This was closer, more necessary. 

He knocked the horse over, more interested in the rider than the animal itself. Whatever the man was, he shouted in fear like other men did, and as he fell from his steed’s back, Bull lunged on him. He pushed him into the ground with first his body, then his fist. He beat the man’s face in until he stopped moving and until his fists were coated in blood. 

The two men from before were shouting orders in Tevine, but Dorian wasn’t obeying them. He was sitting there, stock still, shock freezing him in place. There was no magic at his fingertips, no barrier cast. For one painfully long moment Bull thought the bloody mess in the field was a templar, had turned off Dorian’s connection to the Fade. 

The false sons were drawing weapons though and Krem was running at them, his own war cry on his lips. He didn’t have his axe with him, but a small dagger was enough for him to slice the side of one saddle before the next, frighten the horses into fleeing, and knock the two to the side. Good for a laugh at the right time but this wasn’t that. 

Dorian was moving. He wasn’t confident or calm, but shaking, sweating, and backing away, on his hands, dragging himself away from the last rider. She was the last one of them and her hands were doing something strange. Bull rushed forward, blocking the path between her and Dorian, before realizing that she was casting. 

He growled out a threat but he saw no magic leave her hands. It could have been on Dorian, she could have been killing him for all he knew about magic, and he charged her. But he was stuck. A lash went around his neck, pulled taut, and clenched. 

Bull didn’t see it, but the clutching around his throat had him gasping, curling his hands and scraping at his chest and neck. There was no rope there, but wetness, and it came away in sticky clumps, dribbling down his forearms. The woman continued casting, not pausing for a moment. Bull struggled, trying to pull away, trying to get out of whatever hold she had on him. 

Dots appeared in his vision. He was swimming, sinking, all of him falling into darkness. His fingers felt numb, his knees weak, his lungs on fire. 

The woman’s eyes went wide and she stopped. The liquid melted, blood pouring down Bull’s chest and back. Blood magic then. He cursed under his breath. 

Krem pulled away from her, having half climbed into the horse’s stirrups to reach. His dagger was wet and shining as the woman slumped forward, falling off of her horse and landing feet away from Bull. He could see, even in the night, that there was a wet spot on her back, blood pooling through her clothing. 

Dorian had stopped moving, but he was still pale. He stared at the woman’s body, certain it would move again. 

Bull panted, caught his breath. He needed to get Dorian out of there. Surely it had been an hour, The Chargers would be waiting for them. The innkeeper would hate him for tracking so much blood but, he wouldn’t have traded it for anything. 

Slowly, cautiously, hearing the horses run off to freedom in the distance, Bull approached Dorian. 

“Crour!” Dorian pointed at the gore on Bull’s chest, still pale, still shaking. “Crour… Placet, dimitto.”

Bull slowed, but didn’t stop. “I’m going to need you to calm down, Dorian, can you do that for me?” he could feel his adrenaline fall off of him in waves. He was hot, angry, but there was no one left to hurt and he couldn’t use such things. Not when Dorian was so frightened. 

“It’s the blood, chief.” Krem explained, joining him at his side. “He wants you to stay away because that was a blood mage and now you’re covered in her shit.”

“Could of guessed that.” Bull scoffed, “Aren’t the whole lot of you blood mages?”

Krem rolled his eyes. “Just go back to the inn, alright? I’ll take care of this.” 

Bull didn’t want to, he wanted to stay, help Dorian, figure out who those guys were. The fake sons, they were bounty hunters, no question about that. He would have been stupid to think that The Chargers were the only ones Halward had hired to find Dorian. But the way Dorian had reacted to the other two, they were more than just hunting for a bounty. 

He started heading back, not too fast, both from the pain in his leg and from wanting to be there should Krem need him. The man was helping Dorian to his feet though, brushing off his new clothes and, when Dorian didn’t seem capable of walking, pulled him up into a bride style carry. It would have been a fool who couldn’t see how Dorian blushed at the strength.


	19. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry again for the long wait, my entire life is falling apart and I'm not doing so got. Reading all of your comments have been really nice though, as has writing something far shorter, so yeah, thank you all for the nice words!

Clean. He had to be clean. He’d had a bath, started it off hot but now it was gave him goosebumps. There was no blood on his chest or on his neck, he’d contorted before a mirror to make sure, and he’d checked under his nails half a dozen times. Normally it wouldn’t matter, but the look on Dorian’s face, he had to make sure. 

He dried off, pulled on pants and a shirt, before coming down the stairs to their rooms. Like before, with the drinking, they were all crowded into one. 

Dorian was laid out on Grimm’s lap, wearing the man’s clothes instead of his own. They were too big for him, comfortable. Dorian seemed to be in shock, not speaking, not looking at anyone, but Grimm was running his hand down Dorian’s back comfortingly and every once in a while Dorian would sigh as if he was holding his breath for something unimaginable to happen. 

Skinner raised an eyebrow as Bull entered the small room and took a seat across from Dorian, surprised to see him so dressed. 

“He hasn’t said a word since we came back.” Krem explained, taking a glass that was close to Dorian and empty, filling it back up with what little alcohol they had leftover. “I’ve spoken to him in Tevine too, but he’s not telling us about that blood mage.”

“Have you asked him about anything else?”

Grimm shook his head. That wouldn’t do. Dorian would tell them in his own time. Right now he needed a distraction. 

“So then, there some reason you were in my room?” Bull smirked, leaning forward. He hoped it was charming, ladies seemed to like the look, but he didn’t want to intimidate Dorian. “I don’t remember inviting a necromancer to my room.”

Dorian shivered and looked to the floor, drinking heavily. 

“You know, if you wanted to, and I mean you, none of that training or any other garbage, wanted to come spend the night, my door will always be open. I’m better when I’m awake and sober though. I don’t want a repeat of tonight.”

Dorian did look at him then, with his head cocked, confused. Bull wasn’t saying it plainly, but then again it wasn’t that difficult of a concept. Dorian was beautiful, Bull would have been glad to bed him, but he wanted to know it was Dorian he was bedding, not some saarebas force. 

“He’s saying he wants to fuck you.” Stitches explained and Dorian coughed out a spray of his drink. That got a loud round of laughter out from everyone and Dorian was smiling. Good move then. Dorian’s cheeks were red but when he looked at Bull it was with actual consideration. 

“Now, uh, just to be sure. Tonight we didn’t… uh” he’d blacked out. He knew he had. Dorian wouldn’t have been asleep on his chest if he had. 

Dorian shook his head. 

“Good, good then.” Bull nodded, appreciatively. “No good having you if I don’t get the pleasure of remembering it.”

Dorian blushed harder.

He finished his drink and the rest of them talked around him until, finally, Dorian seemed to fade out of view. Bull had an eye on him, always did, but it was obvious that Dorian wanted nothing more than to be invisible. Bull gave him that opportunity. 

But the invisibility didn’t last forever. 

Once everyone was caught up in each other or going to bed, even Grimm setting Dorian aside to gain some feeling back into his legs, the necromancer slunk to the opposite side of the room. No one noticed his movements but Bull, noticed the man come closer to him. He was nervous, fidgeting, eyes down, and the only way that he asked Bull to take him out of there was by fiddling with the hem of Bull’s sleeve. 

Bull was certain that the nervousness that Dorian displayed had nothing to do with the offer he’d given so freely. Still, he followed the mage out into the hall and then down to his own chambers. 

Dorian’s room was bare , the man had no possessions, only his robes which were neatly folded on the chair, his boots on the floor next to them. He led Bull to sit on the bed, still perfectly flat and unused. Dorian himself paced the floor, locked the door and the returned to pacing. 

After a few minutes, Bull didn’t even know why he was there. “I enjoy watching you parade about but, it is late, so if we could possibly reschedule?”

“That was a blood mage.” Dorian croaked and it was almost so quiet Bull couldn’t hear him. “Her name was Inaurata Cogitari. I knew her, long ago. Kaffas I never expected to see her again.”

“Ex-girlfriend?” 

Dorian spun on him so quickly that Bull thought he was going to lose his head. His eyes were wet, his mustache a mess, he looked like he was about to break but, then again he broke so very often, as someone in his situation was bound to do. 

Dorian straightened himself out though, with only a little bit of chalance. “I wouldn’t know what an ex-girlfriend would be like, I would never want one. I’ve never dated a woman and I do not intend to start. That may be a better beginning of what I have to say, regardless”

He sat on the bed, as far away from Bull as he could possibly get. Bull wanted to draw closer, be helpful, but he knew Dorian needed this. 

“My parents didn’t approve of course. I was bred for perfection and I know you’ve noticed how well they did. That’s Tevinter for you though, procreate until you get the absolute best offspring imaginable. And I’m somehow supposed to make a human being who is better than me! Even if I could lay with a woman I don’t think it would be possible.”

Dorian was speaking a lot and rapidly and with so much practiced vanity that Bull knew that this was the mask Dorian used to wear, the one before the mask had been made of metal and thread, used to keep his mouth shut.   
“You’re taking me back to Tevinter, yes? To my father?” None of them had said as much, just that they were going away from Par Vollen. They didn’t know how Dorian would respond to something like that. “He found out my distaste for women, the fact that I could only love men, and the fact that I would never stop. He-“

Dorian stopped. His hands were shaking, gripping the side of the bed till his knuckles were white. He wouldn’t look at Bull. There were tears in his eyes and a quiver to his lip. “He tried to change me. I was, trapped in that house for months, disallowed to see anyone but my parents and their slaves. All until one day, when Inaurata arrived. My father had hired her and a few others, blood mages the lot, to fix me.”

Dorian bit his lip, trying to keep himself together. He’d been fine with crying in front of Bull before, but that was most likely because he thought he had to. A saarebas who shoved that he was truly sorry for any misconduct sometimes bore less punishment than those who remained stoic. 

Bull wanted to say something, to reach out, to help Dorian through the words he didn’t want to say. Dorian closed his eyes though, folded forward a bit, and then continued as if the pain was merely imagined. 

“There was a ritual. It was supposed to make me marriageable, but it had a major risk to it. If it were to go wrong in any way, it could have left me worse than dead, worse than anything. He hated what I was so much he was willing to risk everything I could be just for an heir.”

Another pause. Too long, Dorian’s mind wandering down terrible roads. Bull could relate, even now he couldn’t describe Seheron in as much detail as Dorian was now spilling. He’d already said so much and Bull wanted to crush his frame against him, crush his father’s head between his large hands. He didn’t know what to do, but he did not want to return Dorian to the Pavus estate. He knew to trust his instincts. 

“Dorian-

“I ran away.” Dorian continued, bouncing off of the interruption. “I got out of there, I don’t even remember how I survived the ritual, what it entailed, but I got out of there. I ran so far. And then I crossed the border and I was so sick, I couldn’t stomach the sea. You know that. And that was when I was found, a pretty lost boy found by towering Qunari soldiers.”

“That’s why you froze.” Bull nodded. 

“She could have continued the ritual, I’m sure my father sent her with those men to find me, to fix me before taking me home.”

Bull did reach out, even though ever learned instinct told him not to touch Dorian right then. His hand landed heavy on the mage’s shoulder all the same. 

“She would have had a hard time of it. I mean, you said it yourself, you’re already perfect. What’s to fix about that?”

And Dorian beamed at him, a true smile, a real feeling that he was cared for and loved beyond his flaws warming him from the inside.


	20. The Lights

It took them a week on horseback to reach the border and, now that Dorian was talking, it was impossible for him to shut up. Grimm was separate from him, no longer having a silent companion, and the others were more than a little bit tired from his constant chatter. Most of it was vanity, forced vanity, and the rest was complaining, comparing everything to the glories of Tevinter. Krem had even joked that he liked Dorian more with his mouth sewn shut and the man had laughed so hard at that that Bull could hardly even see the hurt in him. 

When the border came into view it was obvious, the grass on the other side literally greener, as if Tevinter wasn’t poisoned throughout, as if the land had magic pouring through it. Dorian finally went quiet and he sucked himself in, pulling his back against Bull’s chest. 

“You’re going to be fine.” Bull promised him, wrapping an arm around his waist and kissing his hair. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“You say that.” Dorian practically whimpered, “But you’re still taking me home.”

They had discussed it, all of them, and they were still taking Dorian back to his families estate. The Chargers never backed out of a job, they had a reputation, they needed the money, there were all sorts of reasons. Bull had been quiet about Dorian’s need to stay away, kept it at white lies about why he didn’t want Dorian to return, had said that he wanted Dorian to be one of them now. They all liked him, all said so, but a job was a job. 

“I’m not going to let any of those ‘Vint bastards touch you.” Bull squeezed a little tighter around Dorian’s midsection. 

“And what am I supposed to do about you?” Dorian was less hoarse but there was still a scratching to his voice. “You’re a Qunari. You’ll be killed on sight.”

“Wasn’t the first time.” Bull promised. We can take a couple of blood mages, no problem.”

“You have such simple problems, don’t you?” Dorian said and then they were over the border and Dorian was silent. 

They traveled like that for hours, through the countryside, silent, Dorian breathing heavily the smells of his homeland. Looking at it, feeling it, the warmth on his skin, he seemed overjoyed, but the knowledge of what was coming kept him from expressing it, from letting the joy take over. 

Eventually night started to come and they would need to camp. They had come upon no one yet, had strayed from civilization, but there were a few lights in the distance, twinkling, but not enough to be a town. It was hardly even enough to be an estate. 

“Where are we, exactly?” Dorian asked, looking to Stitches. It was the first thing he’d said in Tevinter. 

Stitches pulled out his map and studied it quickly. They knew their route, had it marked down, but it was hard to tell exactly how far they were. Their speed and time since crossing the border helped and Stitches was able to estimate it without too much effort. 

“Looks like this is the Posterus Plains, Qarinus.” Stitches read. “Why? You have a secret rendezvous here or something?”

It was meant to be a joke but there was a smirk to Dorian’s face, a bit of warmth coming off of him. “Actually yes. That, up ahead, is the Tilani Estate if I’m not mistaken. I spent some time here in secret when I ran away from home.”

“You think Magister Tilani would let us stay the night?” Krem leaned forward upon his horse , peering out at the distant lights.

Dorian chuckled at that, warmly. “You’ve been away from Tevinter a long time. Magister Tilani died years ago in a supposed “accident”. His daughter Maeveris lives there now, planting the seeds of rebellion.”

“I thought all you people were obsessed with breeding like rabbits.” Krem squinted. “You say she’s alone. Shouldn’t she be married or something.”

“She was, to a dwarf, actually. Poor Master Tethras also died in a supposed “accident”.”

“She didn’t kill them, right?” Bull asked, suddenly uncertain of Dorian’s choice of acquaintances. 

“No, but the magister’s who did have suffered for it because of her. I’m sure you would adore her, in all truths.”

Bull’s laughter was a deep, silent rumble behind Dorian’s back. Yes, he was sure that he liked her already. Anyone who could take down magisters and make Dorian this happy was sure to be a good person.  
“Tomorrow.” He decided. “We’ll see her tomorrow. Pretty soon it will be too dark for us to find our way to her estate and she’ll be in bed, anyhow. We don’t want to be too much a burden, right?”

“I’m already a terrible burden to her, owe her too much to count.” Dorian yawned, “But yes, you may be right. Tomorrow then.”

They continued to the north, moving away from the estate and towards a smaller settling of trees, too small to be considered a real forest. They would be protected from view there, invisible from view, unless there was someone already within.


	21. The Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was going to have Mae this chapter but things kind of got away from me

Bull had never been a deep sleeper, years of training and fighting and nights of memories had taught him to wake easily. So when the flap to the tent opened so did his eyes, slowly at first. 

“Dorian,” he breathed, looking over the shadow of the man in the opening, “I know I said my door’s always open, but it is the middle of the night.” 

Dorian stepped closer to him, sashaying his hips a little bit more exaggerated than usual. An attempt to seduce perhaps and Bull was interested, but he was tired and the Chargers would kill him if he woke them up.

And Dorian had made no move to take him up on his offer ever since he made it. 

Bull reached out, grabbed a match and lit a nearby candle, illuminating the tent. The man in his room was young and handsome but was not Dorian, not at all. 

“Bandits!” came Skinner’s voice, loud and angry, from her own tent. She must have had one as well. 

Bull’s axe was in hand before Skinner was done shouting them all awake and it was out and slicing through the man’s neck before he could actually do anything. The fact that he’d been skulking in the dark, wearing robes black as night, no big bulky weapon on him, Bull knew that Skinner was wrong. These people were not bandits. 

He charged out of his tent, looking to see where he was needed. His first thought was Dorian, but no, the mage could take care of himself and he was, a sparking barrier traveling over his skin where he stood, outside of Grimm’s tent, wearing Grimm’s extra clothes as sleepwear, filling another, older, man with purple energy. 

There were only a few of them and the Chargers outnumbered them, but that didn’t make the battle easy. These were not bandits at all, and the fact that they kept vanishing and reappearing, not even a burst of smoke to obscure them, revealed them to be rogues. Their weapons were stilettos, terribly thin, and coated in poison. 

“Assassins!” Bull hissed. “Skinner, why can’t you recognize assassins!”

“Give me a break!” Skinner growled slashing at one of the rogues who just kept darting a few inches out of the way. “Shems all look the same to me!”

Dorian’s victim wandered into the center of them all, looking very green considering the purple bulging through his skin like starscaped bruises, holding his stomach and throat as if he was about to puke. A flicker of static coated Bull, coated the rest of The Chargers in the same kind of barrier that Dorian wore, just in time for the man to burst. Magic and blood and entrails exploded outward, coating the invisible assassin’s, causing mass hysterics, a lot of damage, and for the rogue’s to no longer be quiet as easily hidden. 

After that, killing the assassin’s was easy. Fireballs rained down on some, from Dorian, ice froze some, from Dalish, and explosions wrecked the small wood from Rocky, while the rest of them cut through the assassins who tried to escape the bombardment. 

They were soft, wore only leather for armor, and they were easy to slice apart. The sun hadn’t even started to rise by the time they were done with the sorry group, only one left alive, in Grimm’s steady grip. 

The barriers fell as well as the adrenaline. Dorian looked tired, having held the spell for so long, but he wasn’t drained. More importantly he wasn’t hurt. It looked like none of them had been taken by as much surprise as the assassins wanted and the most damage was a poisoned dagger that had made it into Dalish’s arm. Stitches was looking to that and she would be fine. He had all sorts of goodies and antidotes. 

But now, what he needed was the assassin still in Grimm’s hold. 

The moment that Bull grabbed him Grimm let go, letting Bull lift the stranger up by the steady grip in his robes. 

“Okay, you got my attention.” Bull rumbled, knowing he was covered in the blood of his enemies and smiling because he knew how terrifying that was. “Now what do you intend to do with it?”

“Hopefully lose it!” the assassin squirmed in his grip. “You’re not even our target. Just thought you were some mercenaries out to patrol, to make sure we weren’t coming.”

“You’re pretty lose with information.” Bull noted and dropped his axe to the floor, grabbing the rogue by his ankle and turning him upside down. “I like that in a failing murderer. Who’s your target?”

“I can answer that.” Dorian made his way forward, stumbling a little bit. He didn’t know how to pull his punches anymore, with him it was all of his magic out at once. “Tilani, yes?”

The assassin, now turning a bit red in the face, nodded in agreement. “We were hired to kill her before she took over the magisterum with her politics. She’s made a lot of people very angry.”

Bull shook him, watching weapons and payment and other little trinkets fall from his robes. “And you thought to kill us while on the way.”

“Well, yes. You could have been hired by her, to guard her or make sure no one was out here to get her. You know how it is. Please, stop shaking me.”

Bull smiled more so and didn’t stop shaking him. It was more fun like this. “There any more of you out here?”

The rogue shook his head. “No, no! That was all of us, I swear.”

Bull dropped him unceremoniously, letting him hit his head on the blood stained ground. “Why are you lying. I don’t like it when you people lie to me.”

“I promise, it was only the eight of us!” The man pulled himself into a sitting position, rubbing his head. He was looking around though, studying the shadows. There were more of them, and they were close, possibly coming to inspect the sounds of fighting. Assassins weren’t made to fight. 

Bull grabbed him by the wrist this time and lifted him again. “You’re really bad at this, you know? I’d tell you to find a new line of work but I know you won’t. Best for me to just kill you now.”

“Please, please!” The man whimpered, “I’m just trying to make a living, you know? You can’t blame me for that!” 

Krem made a sharp noise then and they all turned to him. He wasn’t wearing his armor, it was too late at night for that, and his back had been far too exposed. There was a woman behind him, dressed the same as the rest of the assassins, standing almost as still as he was, her dagger presumably in his back. 

Bull grabbed the assassin in his hands head and twisted it enough to break his neck, before dropping him and racing forward, barreling his way to Krem. He was still running when a fireball slammed into the woman’s side, knocking her away, and the rest of the Chargers were screaming out, both for Krem and for the other assassins that had come into view. 

The battle resumed but Bull didn’t see it. All he saw was Krem. He’d taken the man, no, the boy, into his arms, was cradling him against his chest as one massive hand pressed against Krem’s back, holding as much blood as he could in. Pressure wasn’t enough, not with the poison now flowing through Krem’s torso, running through his chest and making its way to his heart. 

“Maeveris!” Dorian bellowed, making three assassins light up with a lightning strike. “Get Krem to Maeveris! Now!”

“Go on, chief!” Rocky shouted, skewering an assassin that was getting a bit too close. “We’ve got this!”

Bull didn’t bother to fight, not his own men’s orders or the assassins who tried to hurt them. He held Krem close, paying close attention to his breathing, the way his heart was hammering, the way he was trying to stay conscious. He darted to their horses who were whinnying and striking out with their hooves at whatever enemy drew close enough. 

Bull’s own horse calmed at the sight of him, let him climb on even unsaddled, and together they raced out of the forest, away from the battle, and towards where he remembered the lights being. Never before had he fled a fight but, this was Krem, and he had to. 

There was fire igniting the trees, giving him light and heat, but he moved past it. He heard a strangled yelp and more screaming from The Chargers, but there was nothing he could do about that. He only spared a moment to look back as they drew up to the estate, seeing fire and purple lightning reach up to strike at the night sky.


	22. The poison

Bull was pounding on the door, letting his horse wander as it would. Someone had to be up, someone would come, she must have had guards or slaves or someone who would hear, would let them in. It took a long time, far too long, before a man opened the door, dressed in blue with a chest plate and sword. He took one look at Bull and Krem in his arms, before backing away, letting Bull in without a word. Guy must have been new, Bull could have been the assassin, could have used this whole thing as a trick to kill the lady of the house. 

He was led through to the kitchen, the guard shouting all the while, waking the house and delegating other guards to do what he needed. Mostly that was get the table cleared off and get Maevaris. He gingerly set Krem down on the table and checked his pulse, ignoring everything else. It was erratic, as was his breathing, and he was hardly breathing anymore. 

Maevaris swanned into the room, the blue silks of her nightgown billowing behind her. She looked at nothing but Krem, not caring about the blood now staining her tile floors or the massive Qunari towering over her table. She turned Krem over and laid him out gently, before grabbing the thick material of his shirt and ripping it apart. No noblewoman should have had the strength to do that. It wasn’t important though, just filed away.

She inspected the wound, fingers touching and feeling the heat of the poison. “I need elfroot potions, strong ones!” she ordered, glancing momentarily at one of the guards. “The strong ones. They’re downstairs. And I’ll need lyrium too. You know which ones are lyrium right?” 

The guard shook, his stance of attention waning. “Uh, yes ma’am?”

“The blue ones in the round bottles that glow slightly when you squint at them. Don’t mess this up.” Her tone was sharp, her voice deep, and the guard raced down the stairs to comply. Only then did she turn her attention to Bull. “What kind of poison is this?”

He shook his head, weary, tired, too pumped up to speak. He needed Krem to be alright. 

“I can’t stop the poison unless I know what it is. Do you know where it came from at least?” she was moving her hands now and they were every bit as elegant as Dorian’s the motions so similar to his own spellcasting. They must have learned together then. 

“Assassins.” Bull choked out. “They were coming for you. Thought you hired us.”

“Kaffas.”   
She bit her lip and returned her attention to Krem. A blue glow came from her fingers and the light dripped down into Krem’s wound. The blood on his body started to dissipate, The wetness covering Bull tingling and fading from view, filling Krem back up. Color started to return to his cheeks, and his ears turned a bright red, as if he were embarrassed. 

Maevaris stopped suddenly and the blood started to seep again. She seemed dizzy and put a shaky hand to her forehead. “My apologies. It’s been a long time since I did this much healing. It’s not exactly my main skill.”

Bull returned the pressure to Krem’s back, trying to keep all of the blood inside of him. He watched as the mage fell back into a chair, rubbing her temples as a headache rushed through her. She was tall and slender, strong and radiant. Her dress though was a bit too transparent though and the lace in the front was only enough to cover her chest for its flatness. He didn’t have to ask to know that she was the same as Krem and he knew how Tevinter treated people like them. 

The guard returned with an armful of potions, dumping them out onto the table. “Anything else ma’am?” he asked without hesitation. 

She reached out, took a lyrium potion and downed it like necessary ale. “A shirt, something that will fit…

“him.” Bull offered. 

Maevaris nodded and the guard ran off. She picked herself back up, stronger but still not to her best, and removed Bull’s hands. She poured a healing potion over Krem’s back and started to work again. The wound started to close, the meat inside stitching back together before the skin, and soon there was nothing but a bright red scar and signs of infection to show it had ever happened. 

“The poison?” Bull asked as Maevaris carefully turned Krem back over, lifting his head enough to pour the other health potion down his throat. 

“Still there. I said I can’t fix that until I know what it is.” She sat back down, exhausted. “The potions will repair the damage as it happens though. I just… I need a moment before I can keep going and I really don’t know poisons well.”

“I got a man for that.” Bull nodded. “Hopefully he’ll be on his way soon.” 

“Let’s hope so. In the meantime, why don’t you tell me why you came to me of all people and who you even are?”

Bull spilled it all, but the part that he started with, the part that had her trust immediately, was what he started with: “Dorian told us you’d help.”


	23. The Morning

It was dawn when there was finally a knock on the door. They’d spent the night pouring so many health potions into Krem that he’d unconsciously thrown up a stomach full of it, as well as some black tar-like substance. Maevaris had explained that was some of the poison as well as other toxins in his system, just from living, and nothing to be worried about. 

The servants had come in, seen the mess, and immediately gotten to work. Now there was no more blood on the tiles, no bile on the table, and breakfast was being made. 

Maevaris leapt to her feet at the sound, even though she knew it could have been the assassins. The knowledge that it could be Dorian had her all excited. She passed the guards on the way to the door and flung it open. From where Bull was sitting he could hear her gasp.

Murmured voices, nothing Bull could catch and then Stitches came into view, cutup with small gashes, Maevaris bringing him in by the wrist. Stitches calmed down seeing Krem was still alive, but not as much as Bull would have liked. 

“What is it?”Bull demanded.

“Well, uh…” Stitches rubbed the back of his neck. He wouldn’t make eye contact. “Good news is that Dorian saved us all, again, and that I figured out what the poison is thanks to Dalish’s gash.” He shuffled around, not quite moving away, but definitely not comfortable. There was more. 

“The bad news?” Bull growled. 

“Dorian died. I don’t know how to explain it but he died. Just for a little bit. Then there was a purple ghost version of him that did a whole lot of magic and didn’t need any build up for it, then that died, then Dorian teleported to where the purple him was, then he woke up.”

Maevaris cackled at that, clapping her hands in front of her. 

Stitches just stared at her like she was insane. For all they knew, she was. 

She stopped laughing, looking at them both, “I’m sorry, I just can’t believe you people don’t know about that, you southerners are so quaint! It’s a necromancy thing. The purple him was his spirit being drawn from the fade, Dorian likes to do it when he’s too exhausted to keep working. He used to do it all the time while studying in the circle.”

“You’re telling me that’s normal?” Stitches was pale and close to screaming, he was so riled. “That’s not normal!”

“You people all think necromancy is raising the dead to do your bidding. I’m telling you, Dorian learned more that way than he ever did when he was in his flesh. Now, I’m going to need your help with the poison.”

He nodded, took a step, then nodded again. Maevaris took him by the arm and led him to the kitchen proper, passed Krem’s unconscious body. They would need ingredients and Stitches was in a bit too much of shock to explain things to their new host. 

Bull made his own way through the estate, getting directions from guards and servants to where The Chargers were. There were a lot of guest rooms, the estate made for a large family or at least some extravagant parties, and The Chargers had been split up amongst them. Dorian’s was the most obvious of all, with Grimm standing right in front of the door, his arms crossed over his chest. 

He looked Bull over, wearily, exhausted, but moved out of his way. 

Dorian was laying on top of the bed, his borrowed clothing soaked through with sweat that smelled distinctly of magic. He’d given his all and then some, again. He needed to stop doing that, he needed to learn to control himself, again, if he’d ever known how. From what Maevaris said he may not have ever known. 

Bull pulled up a chair though and, before settling in it, lifted Dorian so as to put him actually in the bed instead of on top of it. When he set Dorian down though, the man was breathing hard, shaking once more, and clutching Bull’s arm like a lifeline. 

Bull tucked him in, kissed his forehead, and let Dorian clutch at him even as he sat down. “Don’t worry, Big Guy, I’m not leaving. I got you.” 

Within minutes he was asleep, leaning over the bed with horns resting on Dorian’s chest, feeling the way the man’s chest moved.


	24. The Falling

Bull hadn’t woke up to a hand stroking his back in years, not since he’d cried to his tama years and years ago. He opened his eye and, luckily, he was facing the right way, because he didn’t want to move from where he lay, and he wouldn’t have given up this view for a second eye to see it with. 

Dorian was awake and he wasn’t even noticing that Bull was the same. He was holding a book in one hand, reading it with a quirk to his lips, the first book he’d had a chance to touch since he’s entered Par Vollen, most likely. His other hand was warm as it traced Bull’s muscles, not even really paying attention to what he was doing. 

“Feels good.” Bull mumbled and Dorian jumped, tossing the book to the side with his hand stilling. 

“I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. Don’t know what I was thinking.” The words came out in a jumble, all sorts of words and apologies hinted at in his words, but not said. 

“I’m the one who fell asleep on you.” He pulled himself up, rubbing his eye. “I should be apologizing. Apparently you died and I should have more self control than to sleep on you.”

“Ah you heard about my little parlor trick.” Dorian’s soft smile came back to his lips. “Very good at terrifying an enemy.”

“Good at terrifying my medic too.”

Dorian’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll have to apologize to him then. And, Krem, is he?”

“Not sure. You want to find out with me?”

Dorian nodded and got himself out of bed, only stumbling once he was standing. Bull caught him easily and for a moment, thought to threaten him with carrying him down in front of everyone. 

“You wouldn’t dare.” Dorian glared at him, reading the expression on his face. “I’m humiliated enough by wearing these nasty old things. Mae will never see me as dashing as she once had.”

“Never complained before.” Bull did hold out his arm though and Dorian did take it like a belle attending a ball. 

“That was the woods and people who have no taste.” They left the room and made their way back to the kitchens. Dorian didn’t ask anyone directions and they all mostly left him alone. He must have spent a lot of time there. 

Krem was no longer on the kitchen table. What ere was though was food, leftovers from breakfast. And dirty dishes. The servants looked up at them standing in the doorway. 

“Real food.” Dorian looked at the leftovers. “Excuse me, can we have some of this?”

One of the servants nodded and another came forward with a plate. Dorian took it from her and waved her off. “Come now, you know me Alianza, no need to bow down and pretend you’re a slave in front of some magister.”

“Right Dorian, as if we’d forget you’re but an altus.” The girl smirked a bit, brightened up and sashayed back to her work. 

Dorian filled his plate, heaping, more food than he could possibly eat alone. Bull didn’t say a word as he took more of the sweet things than the savory, nor that he took two forks. 

“You know where Krem went?” Bull asked, “Or the others?”

“They’re in the garden.” Alianza pointed over her shoulder. “All of them are awake and Krem was grumpy so I think it’s for the best you slept in.”


	25. The Request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you get two chapters! Because I had thought I'd already posted the one before this.

Krem ddint seem grumpy at all. In fact he was talking more than usual, laying back to protect where he’d been hurt, and answering all of Maevaris’ questions with a big smile on his face. If Bull didn’t know better he’d think Krem was flirting, but that couldn’t have been it, Krem didn’t flirt with anyone. 

Anything Krem couldn’t answer Dorian was glad to. Bull hadn’t told her what had happened to Dorian before they’d left Par Vollen, but Dorian did not attempt to hide it and she held him and brushed his hair against her shoulder, trying not to cry as he recounted what had happened under the Qun. She was strong though and even though tears sprang to her eyes, she did not need to wipe them away. 

Dorian was more stoic than he ever had been and he told his story with mirth and short quips that made the entire ordeal seem like an unfortunate event instead of five years of torture. He barely even flinched when Maevaris traced the scars around his lips but Bull could see how Dorian’s hand gripped the arm of the couch they were on hard enough to splinter it. 

“And you want to take him back?” Maevaris turned to Bull then, moving one hand to grip Dorian’s hand which was closest to her. “After all that?”

“Don’t have much of a choice.” Bull took a large bite off of the plate Dorian had brought out, the sweetness of the small pie filling his mouth with some kind of spice that smelled of licorice. “We have a job to do and we’ll do it, but don’t worry your pretty little head, we’ve got Dorian covered.”

“We’re not going to let anyone hurt Dorian.” Dalish added, “Not even his dad.”

Dorian blushed and kept his eyes down. It was a dark color, hardly noticeable on his cheeks, and Bull wondered if it showed up anywhere other than his face. He shook the thought from his mind though, no use dwelling on something that would never happen. 

And he found that hurting more every day. 

“I would pay you.” Maevaris interrupting Bull’s gaze down Dorian’s chest. “I may not be a magister but I can pay you for Dorian’s release. I’m sure it’s more than what Halward offered you.”

“That’s beside the point.” Dorian looked over at Bull and there was something there, something in his eyes that drew Bull in. Perhaps it was how cold they were, icy silver, or it could have been some magic within them. “He desperately wants me. If the Chargers don’t escort me, my father has hired brigands to try to take me by force!”

“You’d be safe here.” Maevaris argued. 

“You say that but if it weren’t for us your halls would be filled with political assassins!” Dorian laughed. It was fake but it sounded warm regardless. “No, I’ll be alright.”

“Well, we should at least let Felix know you’re back.” She nodded. “You should write him a letter.”

“Felix is alive?” the smile on his face brightened, as did his eyes. Felix must have been as important man. Bull’s head swam with possibilities, a lover perhaps, or a relative, or someone else who was close to Dorian, someone who was possibly ill or had been there when Dorian was taken. 

“Unfortunately. You know Alexius, doing everything in and out of his power to keep the poor boy going. It’s not good what he’s doing.”

Dorian bowed his head, taking it off of Maevaris’ shoulder. “I know. Still he’s too good for the world to lose him.”

“Too good for the world to have him.”

Dorian stood suddenly, taking the dish of food still half full, just when Bull was stealing some grapes off of it. “I should get to that then. I’m hoping that we won’t tarnish your hospitality by staying too long. Hopefully we’ll be away by evening, if that’s alright.”

“There’s no need to rush!” Maevaris almost jumped up to join him. 

“You know me, all sorts of procrastination on things that are important. Well, I’m feeling that we’re reaching a deadline of sorts. As I said, there are all kinds of baddies after me, I’d hate for you to be caught amongst them.”

Without another word he was gone, carrying his plate back towards the kitchen. 

“He normally like that?” Krem asked, moving over to sit next to Maevaris. He was obviously sore but he didn’t seem too terribly hurt.

“Not unless he’s found some new book of interest.” Maevaris explained. “It’s all very strange. But then again, everything bad in the world has happened to him since I last saw him.”

Bull pulled himself out of his chair. It was a lounge chair too close to the ground and when he stood up his knee creaked and it felt like it took forever for him to get up. “Don’t worry, I’ll check on him.”

That must have been right, because the rest of them went on talking about better things and Krem started telling a story. That left Dorian all for him to see and he went into the estate proper without further delay. 

Dorian hadn’t made it to the kitchen. The plate was set on a table on the way to the stairs, far too precariously. Bull snagged a few more bites off of it and pushed the glass further onto the hardwood to keep it from falling. 

Dorian hadn’t made it to his room either. He was on the stairs, leaning against the wall on one side, his eyes closed. He would appear to be asleep if you didn’t notice the signs of fever, shaking and sweat dripping down his temples. 

“You okay there, Big Guy?” Bull didn’t draw too close, tried to keep his voice gentle.

“Just a migraine.” Dorian waved him off. “Came quite suddenly. Sorry if I made anyone worry.”

“Don’t worry about other people.”

“Oh, am I worry some enough on my own?”

“More than some.”

That got a chuckle out of Dorian and he tried to push off from the wall, but he stumbled and threatened to fall before Bull caught him. 

“Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

“Do you pan to join me?” Dorian asked, small and vulnerable against Bull’s chest. It was a request, not an attempt to placate, and Dorian’s cheeks burned more than the fever had started. 

“If you’d like.” 

“I think I really would.”


	26. The Pull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you anon! You're donation made this chapter possible

Dorian’s skin was surprisingly soft and warm to the touch as Bull took the thin linen shirt off of him, his own stumpy fingers brushing against him. Dorian was so much brighter than he was, the color of his skin so much more saturated. Bull was gray and bland in comparison. Bull had touched Dorian many times, thousands, by now, but never bare skin, not when he was flushed, wanton, alive and himself, so much more than a forced saarebas. 

He let Bull lay him down on the bed, offered up a bemused smile, a hint at a challenge. Bull lay down over him, matching it, trying to surpass it, his own kiss enough to dissuade such an attack. Dorian’s lips were pliant and relenting, letting bull in, letting his tongue press past his teeth. Dorian’s hands were on his back and he was so warm, Bull was sure that Tevinter wasn’t nearly as hot as Dorian himself was. 

Bull’s hands shifted, went down over Dorian’s hips, felt the bones there, still protruding even though he had gained a good amount of weight back. The tie was loose, easy for Bull’s thick fingers to slide through and undo, and then he was pulling the leggings down Dorian’s thighs, finding them thick, strong, and in need of his lips. He grinned and a pleased moan rumbled through him, and Dorian closed his eyes, bit his lip, decadent and alluring. 

Bull wanted to kiss him again. He didn’t know why. He’d thought Dorian was pretty enough times, had wanted to see him spread out beneath him, had wanted to push aside all of the thoughts that his Arvaarad had placed in his head, but he didn’t know about kissing. That was something unusual, more than sex, more than what they had and what he usually wanted. But Dorian was so much more than he’d ever expected anyone to be. He was utterly terrifying. 

Bull rolled onto his side and slid up the back of his body, letting his fingers drag against Dorian’s skin. His ass was pert and slightly jutted out, as if he used it to pout, and it felt glorious, the crease perfect for Bull’s fat cock to lay against. He hadn’t even seen that ass yet, hadn’t removed Dorian’s smalls, but already he was hard, thinking about all the things he could do with it. Rub his cock against the cheeks, eat it out, spank it raw and red, fuck into it hard and rough and wet. A shiver went down his spine just at the thought. 

He pushed his hand down and into Dorian’s smalls, feeling his hard cock, still a good size but definitely nothing like a Qunari’s and purred, leaning forward to nip at Dorian’s ear. It was hot and thick, hard enough to hurt if teased too long. He gave it some appreciative strokes, listening for Dorian’s moans and grunts, waiting to feel him thrust into the loose palming. 

Dorian did nothing though, just lay there and accepted the soft petting, letting Bull breath against his ear. He stiffened, stopped touching Dorian, wondered if this was allowed. Dorian had asked him, but he was nowhere near healthy, still sometimes cowered and acted like a slave more than a man. Bull wanted to take him apart, remove all of the hurt and pain that had been shoved into him, clean out the wounds from such thorns, and put him back in place. As it was, he couldn’t do anything, not if Dorian didn’t truly want it. 

Bull pulled himself upward, leaned on one elbow, and looked at the man laying against him. Dorian didn’t seem distressed, nor uncomfortable. He was, instead, asleep. His cheeks were flushed, his ears a bright red, and the exhaustion, fever, and migraine, had finished him off. His breathing was light and even, eyes closed. 

Bull smiled and removed his hand from Dorian’s smalls. He wasn’t going to continue, not without Dorian participating. The man needed sleep, desperately, and Bull would not deny it of him. Not even if it meant there was a lack of orgasms and a good time. 

Bull rolled over, leaving Dorian’s back. He was going to leave, go to his own room and jerk off or something. He was as hard as Dorian was, but he was at least awake enough to do something about and all those thoughts about Dorian’s ass had his mind buzzing. 

When he stood though there was a disappointed sigh. He turned and found Dorian on his back, looking up at him under heavy lids. His hair was already disheveled. 

“Would you stay?” he asked, words slurring with the sleep that clung to him. 

“You don’t need me.” Bull smiled, even though the words hurt in his chest to say. 

“I would like you here, all the same,” Dorian admitted, “I won’t hold you if you’d prefer.”

Bull’s smile became more real as he returned to the bed. Dorian looked right like this, tired and comfortable, in a bed that he fit in, his smalls skewed by the curve of his cock, cheeks flushed. 

“You’re offering to hold me now?” Bull chuckled. “Didn’t know you were big into hugging.”

Dorian rolled his eyes and flopped back down to the mattress. “A mistake. Forget I said anything, you lumbering oaf.”

Bull climbed onto the bed, straddling Dorian’s hips, his own thighs more than a few inches from touching him. “No no, I’m going to remember that. That the great Dorian Pavus offered to hold me.”

“Well, I suppose that if you are going to act like a child you may deem necessary to be held like one.” Dorian grumbled, squirming as he tried to force his limbs up and out from under Bull. 

Bull released him and fell back to his side, erection practically forgotten. “Come here, you’re tiny.” He spread one arm out, offering his chest fro Dorian to cling to, “It would be best if I held onto you.”

“You’re apprehensible.” Dorian glared.

“I won’t tell anyone.”

Dorian continued to glare but it was clear that he was going to give in. He was too tired not to and his migraine was still pulsing, most likely. He grumbled but didn’t give much of a verbal answer, just inched closer and lay down. When Bull grabbed him and pulled him close, his cheek against one peck, Bull could feel him exhale, muscles relaxing, as he fell back to sleep.


End file.
